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THE

Gentleman s Magazine

Volume CCXCI.
JULY TO DECEMBER 1901

Processe ^ Delectare ^Sk? ^»^ E Pluribus Unum

£*/i/^*/ by SYLVANUS URBAN, GentUman

lontton

CHATTO & WINDUS, iii ST MARTIN'S LANE

1901

li ^ -'■-*• - ■■ -

*>"-^

■^ , ' X "<•

CONTENTS of VOL. CCXCI.

[Alfred, Ad Old-English Hallad of. By J. J. Elus , , » ^^l

lAmatrair Pedigree -Monger, Tht Ry P. Evaks Lewin , , 339

lAmbassadors, Tales of. By GEORCtANA Hill .... 462

' aticipated Scarcity, The, of Timber. By Arthur RaNSOM , 56

rAppxntioti, The, of Mrs, VeaL By Ralph H. Brethkrton , 531
Around the Three Towers of Grasse. By F. G. DUKLOP-

Wallace- Good BODY 344

stronomer. A Great Belgian. By J. Ellaro GorE, F.R.AS. . 445

PAi Lyme Regis. By Maude Prowkr 307

At (he Deodafs. Adapted by H. Mackemzik from the Danish of

E. HOvER 417

Solingbrokc, The Politics of. By Thomas Dateson ... 31

80W, The Fight at, near London, in 1648. By Harold F. Hills 174

Brass- Rubbing. By Rev. P. H. IJ1TCHFIEI.D, M.A^ F.S.A . . $11

3roken Dream, The. By George Morley ..... 488

BttCe, The Earl of. Dy J. A. Lovat-Fraser 559

staways, their Influence on Population. By W. ALLtNCUAU . 273

^C^herine IL and the Comte de S^gur. By Georciana Hill . 61

Censorship, The, of Plays in France. By Maurice Daumart . 593

China, Matrimony and Music in. By J. Cuthhert Haddem . 604

Coleridge Country, The. By PERaVAL H. W. Almy ... 66
CradteSongs, Italian. Bv E. C. Vansittart , . , .367
IKd Mary Stuart love Bothwelt ? By Amy Tasker . . .570

Eastern (question, Three Years of the. By \V. Miller, M.A . 429
Education, The, of the Early Nonconformists, By Foster

Watsom, M.A 229

Elementary Schools in Japan. By Rev. WiLUAM Burnet, M.A. 282

Evolution, The, of the Modem Gentleman. By Daniel Johnston 189

Fight, The, at Bow, n«ar London, in 1648. By Harold F. Hills 174
Grasse, Around the Three Towers of. By F. G. DUNLOP-

Wallace Goodbodv S44

Guizot By Georciana Hill 258

Harvest on the Prairie. By HAROLD BiNDLOSS . . . • S^t

Hertfordshire, Looking Backward la. By William Andrews . 454
Hyderabad: a Chapter of Ancient History. By Colonel G. H.

TkEVOR, C.S.I 245

Irony and some Synonyms. By H. W. Fowler .... 378

Italian Cradle Son^s. By E. C. Vansittart 367

Japan, ElemenUry Schools in. By Rev. Wiluam Burnet, M.A 282

iekylliana- By Emilv J. Climenson 346

ewclry and Gems. By Emily Hill 585

.'Ecole des Piifvcnus. By Edmund Oliver Bentinck . , i

Looking Backward in Hertfordshire. By William Andrews . 454

Lov« Story, The, of an Old Marquise. By Ja ye Garry . . tSo

Love's Year. By M. A CURTOis 518

Lyric Poetry, The, of Victor Hugo. By C. E. Meetkerkb , . 400

Matrimony and Music in China. By J. Cuthbert HADDEN . 603

Meiternich, Prince, and Napoleon. By Georciana Hill . 164

Modem Gentleman, The Evolution of the. By Daniel Johnston 189

Monks' Island, On the. By Z6uA DE LADEVkzE . . . • 125
Mound'Making Birds. By Alex. H. Japp, LL.D. . , , .321

Mrs. Veal, The Apparition ot By Ralph H. BretherTOM . . 531

Mr. Wyatt. By Constance Montfort Nicklis ... 74

Napoleon and Prince Meiternich. By Geokgiana Hl\.l. • , \^^

iv Contents.

Hjom,

Nightjars, A Study of. By Alex. H. Japp, LL.D 141

Nonconformists, The Education of the Early. By FOSTER

Watson, M.A 239

dds and Ends in Pompeii. By jjLY WOLFFSOHN . , , 398

31d Age. Py Rev. M. G. Watkins, MA 253

Old Science, The, and ihe New. By E. W. Adams, M.D. . . 493

Pcak]a^d Township, Sonne Bygone Happenings in a. By John Hyde ^Z()

Pedigree- Monger, The Amateur. By P. Evans Lewin . . , 339

Pepys, A Sussex. By Charles Cooper . . , • 17

Pdrez Galdos, The Npvcls of. By \V. Miller, M.A, . . . 229

Plantagenets, Se!f-Styled. By Albert M. Hvamson . . . 503

Plays, The Staging of, 300 Years Ago. By Rev. Eric Rede Buckley 288
Pohtics, The, of Uolingbroke. By Thomas Baieson . , .31
Pompeii, 0|dds and Ends in. By LiLY Wolffsohn , . .298

Prairie, Harvest on the. By HAROLD Bindloss . . ^ • 521

Red King's Dream, The. By E. M. Rutherford .... 203

Regicide in the Nineteenth Century. By S. Beach Chester . 382

Rival Physicians, The. By N. P. Murphy 40&

Science, The Old, and the New. By E. W. Adams, M.D. . . 493

Sfcur, The Comte dc, and Catherine n. By Georciana HUX . 62
Self-Styled Plantagenets. By Albert M. Hyamson . , .503

Siddons, The. By H. SciiUTZ WiLSOW 473

Some Bygone Happenings tn a I'cakland Tovraship, By JOHN HydE 389

Some ExpeiimeDts with Jane. Uy M. A. CURTOIS . . . . 313

Some Vulgar Errors. By Philip Kent . . . ... 49

Sources of Wtst-Pyrenean Law. By A. R. Whiteway ... 83

" Spectator, The." By T. R. Pearson 611

Staging, The, of Plays 300 Years Ago. By Rev. ERIC Rede BUCKLEY 288

Study, A, of Nightjars. By Alex. H. jAPP, LL.D 141

Sussex Pepys, A. By Charles Cooper . . . . . 17
Table Talk. By Sylvanus Urban :—

Mr. Baildon's "Robert Louis Stevenson"— Wild Birds Pro-
tection— Sea Birds the Fisherman's P'riends . , , 103

A Holiday Suggestion — English Cathedral Churches — A Society
for the Protection of the English Language — Respect paid

to English in Past Times 206

Modem Corruption of Language— Current Errors — Stale Quo-
tations— New Quotations 309

A. Primitive Stage Representation — *' Everyman "—Story of
" Ever>'jman —Lancelot du Lac— Position of Lancelot in
Arthurian Legend— "The Idylls of the King" . . .413

The Hooligan— From Mohock to Hooligan— Decay of Discipline 519

Civilisation vrrsui Barbarism— The Civilising of Central

Afdca— Misprints— Modem Journalism . . . . 61S

Tales pf Ambassadors. By Geokgi.ana HiLL .... 462
Tennioating the Treatise. By ENOCH ScRlBE . . . .168

Three Years of the Eastern Question. By W. Miller, M.A.. . 429

Timber, The Anticipated Scarcity of. By Arthur Ransom . . 56

Twelve Signs, The, By W. B. Waluce, B.A 105

Victor Hugo, The Lyric Poetry of. By C. E. MeeikeRKE . . 400

West-Pyrenean Law, Sources of. By A. R. WlirraWAY ... 83

When London Liglus the Sky. By Rev. John M. BaCON, ^LA. . 95

Wild Irishman's Exploit, A. By John K. Leys .... 2oy
"Words, WbrxJs, mere Words." By Dora Cave . . , .101

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

July 1901.

LECOLE DES PREVENUS,

By Edmund Oliver Bentinck.

SINCE the death of John Verrall, senior, founder of the eminent
publishing house of Verrall, Beevor and Verrall, the manage-
ment of the firm had been in the hands of his son, who bore the same
name. Among men who had known the father intimately, and
appreciated his value both as a friend and as a man of business,
it was generally agreed that with all his undoubted good qualities he
had one foible, which had done much to retard the prosperity of his
house : in the world of literature, as in the world of real life, he was a
confirmed misogynist His marriage (so he would tell his friends in
expansive moments) had been the only violation of the principle that
he had ever committed. But if any, emboldened by this admission,
thought to pave the way for further confidences, with trite reference
to rule-proving exception, then there was no more to be got out of John
VerralL Only those who had known the wife interpreted his silence
in her favour.

And now that John the elder was dead, there were those who
traced in his son indications of the same tendency, but in one
direction only. John Verrall the younger had recently married a girl
seven or eight years his junior, of whom it was allowed on all hands
that Verrall could not have done better. He was aware of his good
fortune. Passionately devoted to his wife, if he escaped the censure
of uxoriousness, it was all that could be said of him. In character,
in beauty, in tastes, in accomplishments, Dorothea Verrall was a wife
of whom any man might justly be proud ; and Verrall sought not to
conceal his pride. His attitude, moreover, in social matters had
never been such as to justify the opinion which held gpodi Vcv ^<&

VOL. cczci. Na 2047. ^

Tfu Gentiemans Magazine.

tribute to feminine merit.

But when it came to business, then the old leaven appeared with
the strength of concentration. To present a woman's book to John
Verrall's criticism was to offer a red rag to a bull. Had George ElJot
herself appeared to him in the spirit, with MSS. in her hand, she
would have met, it is lo be feared, with a frigid reception. Yet he was
both a man of taste and a man of business, but— a monomaniac.

This story opens barely six months after Verrall's marriage. It
was not generally known that he had already quarrelled with his wife
— quarreUed so seriously that they bad for the present separated.
That was only known to three persons : to John Verrall himself, to
Dorothea, and to John's maiden aunt, Jane Verrall, who lived with
hem, and enjoyed the confidence of both in things great and smalL
Vet, considering the passion that Verrall was known to entertain for
his wife, the fact of her departure from his house, with the said Jane
Verrall, and of her continued absence therefrom, could not pass
without comment. Humorists were not wanting to declare that in
Dorothea's cupboard was the skeleton — that behind her many known
accomplishments lurked one unknown and greater — in short, that the
guilt of the authoress was hers.

The wags were in the right of it.

One morning, when John A'crrall came down to breakfast, he
found Aunt Jane looking rather uneasy, and Dorothea looking rather
timid. John accord ngly looked pleased. It did not occur to him
lo inquire why Aunt Jane looked uneasy j he was so pleased at
Dorothea's looking timid. For two reasons, as he bad often told her.
Firstly, because she was more bewitching at such times than at any
others; and, secondly, because he foresaw that he was to have the
pleasure of granting a request, or, as he preferred to call it, obeying a
command. From the fact that she looked rather more timid than usual
he merely inferred that the request would be worth granting, or the
command worth obeying, as before. Being an epicure in uxorious-
ness, he kept his counsel.

Dorothea said nothing worthy of note until she had finished her
breakfast. Then she asked him whether he would have another cup
of coffee. They had a regular form of procedure, and this was how
it always b<^an. The next thing was for John to pass up his cup,
assuming the while a frigid expression, suggestive of tightened pursc-
slrings.

Then Dorothea said :

"John, dear, will you do me a great favour.^"

L'Ecole des Pr^enus, 3

To which he, as in marital dignity boimdi replied :

" Depends entitely what it is."

So far, all was well.

"John, dear, I've "

"WeU?"

"IVe

"Yes?" Dorothea was playing up splendidly.

"IVe "

She came and stood behind his chur, in due adaptation of
Delilah attitude to the circumstances of a breakfast-table.

John, seizing her hands, crushed them with weU-modulated
brutality. He was going to have something for his money.

" John, dear, I'm afraid you'll be angry."

" I expect I shall What have you done ? Written a book ? "

This in grim playfulness, but the answer in tempestuous earnest :

"Yes— not now — a long time ago — and I want you to look at it"

"The devil!" John dropped the hands, and, turning his chair
round, looked at Dorothea. " My dear child, I forget myself. But
of course you're joking ? '*

" No, I'm not I'm quite serious. Is it really so wicked of me ? "

" Dorothea, you know there is nothing I detest so much. It's»
oh ! it's un "

No \ he could not tell Dorothea that anything she did was un-
feminine. He saved himself by bolting, with a mumbled excuse.

Dorothea was deeply wounded. The blow had come as unex-
pectedly to her as to him. Of course she had heard of her husband's
peculiar views about women-novelists \ the subject had been in his
mouth a score of times since she had known him. But the mere
recurrence of his jesting allusions to it had forbidden her to take him
seriously. Aunt Jane, too, on receiving her confidence, had betrayed
some anxiety; thereby amusing Dorothea, but by no means enlightening
her. She understood now ; and, understanding, was determinednot to
submit The thing was so absurd, so unjust, so childish. She would
reason with John ; he must listen to reason. She longed for his re-
appearance. Aunt Jane meanwhile sought to comfort her ; for the
good lady's sympathy was entirely with Dorothea. It might be that
she had in her something of her nephew's prejudice against feminine
authorship ; somehow, it was not quite right that women should deal
in pen-magic. But that was no adequate excuse for John's conduct.
Of course, it would have been better that Dorothea should not have
written a book ; but, as she had written a book, it was his duty to
read it, and, if necessary, to publish it So she told 'Dora^cak\Ck«!\

•Ha

The Gentleman s Magazine.

prove^l

, risen ^^

sincerity ; yet could hold out but slight hope that John would prove^
amenable.

Yerrall did not appear again until lunch-time. The meal passed |
over without allusion to the matter in dispute. When they had
from the table, Dorothea began the attack.

"John, you will look at my boolr, won't you?"

Verrall tried to look surprised. He was becoming conscious that ]
he was a little afraid of Dorothea. He must be firm.

" Dorothea, I had hoped to hear no more about it. You know
my views."

*' AVhat are your views, Joho, exactly ? "

'■ That women should not meddle with writing. The thing
contrary to nature."

" But why ? "

The word would out.
*' It's unfeminine."

Dorothea could not forgive " unfeminine." She took her revenge
in kind.

" John, you argue as women are said to argue. I ask you why
fl thing is so, and you tell me ' because it is.' "

We have said, invite John Verrall's mspection of a woman's MS.,
and you offered a red rag to a hull ; but convict him, lady-reader, of
arguing like a woman, and you tied your red rag across his eyes — at ^|
once a bolder and a safer act. ^^

John sat angry and sullen. He was silenced. Dorothea had
told him the truth ; he could not argue on the matter, as he well
knew. He was battling for a prejudice, dearer to him than common*
sense, dearer than the prosperity of the house \ whether it was dearer^
to him than Dorothea, remained to be seen. For the present he held '
blindly to his point, his determination strengthened by the con-
sciousness of tangible guilt ; for had he not said that she, <'m yvi-aiirAi'jl
was unfeminine?

" I am sorry I don't make myself clear. You will understand, atj
least, that my opinion is based on practical experience."

" Experience of women's books, John ? "

Verrall got up.

" 1 don't think we shall do any good by discussing it, Dorothea.
I know you think me unreasonable. Bui I have my opinions, and I
abide by them." And again he took refuge in flight

Dinner that night was a very frigid affair. Verrall brought with
him an air of reproachful gloom, which Dorothea's half-hearted
efforts could not dispel. Her position was, perhaps, only the more

UEcok des Pr/venus, 5

trying, in that she could perceive the humour of the situation, which
Venallf apparently, could not "When," Dorothea asked herself,
after the failure of each conversational opening, " When would he
forgive her for having written a book, and when should she forgive
him for refusing to read it?" Meanwhile the meal dragged on
relentlessly ; and her heart sank within her, as she anticipated the
possibility of others like it

But here Aunt Jane intervened — a dea tx macMntty eflTectual for
the moment, if dramatically premature.

" John, my dear, Tm sure Dorothea is not looking well Let me
take her away for a change. I suppose you can't get away yourself? "

Verrall caught at the idea. Dorothea should go away for a few
weeks, and would come back with all this nonsense driven out of
her head, to the preservation alike of conjugal peace and editorial
prejudice.

" No, I mustn't leave town myself. But you're quite right about
Dorothea. You'd like a change, wouldn't you, dear?"

" Yes, John, I will go with Aunt Jane. But I warn you that I
shall not come back till you become reasonable."

"Nous perrons a gue nous verrons^" said John, achieving a
timber smile.

Accordingly, it was settled that Dorothea and Aunt Jane should
go away on the following day. They were to go first to Eastbourne,
where they would take up their quarters in a boarding-house ; for
towards such centres of chill respectability did Aunt Jane's maidenly
instinct ever gravitate. Dorothea professed complete indifference to
all details.

Charles Meldrum had been stopping at Eastbourne for exactly a
fortnight ; and for the last ten days of that time he had been telling
himself each day that he must go bock to town at once — to-morrow.
He even knew the train by which he would go to-morrow, having
looked it up to-day. He had written a letter to his landlady, telling
her to expect him ; but he had not sent it. For, as on further re-
flection he rightly argued, accidents may always happen, so a telegram
on the day was better than a letter of the day before. As the reader
will (k)ubtless infer, "accidents" had not been wanting to illustrate
the justice of his reasoning. Consequently the telegram had not
been sent either.

Now, why all this delay? And whence this unprecedented run
of "accidents"?

Meldrum was staying in a boarding-house : the bat ^kicft^ vu^')^

The Gentkinatis Magazine.

\\\ which an independent man would choose to stay. And Meldrum
was independent— in so far, that is, as that he was subject to no
coercion which Imposed on him the necessity of a boarding-house
In fact, he had made his decision in a state of unsound mind.
Fortune had dealt hardly with him these three years. During this
period he had wasted liis substance on many type-writers, and nothing
had come of it. The magazine editors had sent back his MSS. with
neat little notes of rejection inserted somewhere about the middle.
The publishers had besought that they might see his face no more.
And now he was sick of it. Not that he had any intention of
despairing ; but, for the time, he was sick of it. I le must have a holi-
day, he decided. He must get out of town, and he must get away
from himself. He did not much care where he went, provided that
no great trouble was involved in getting there. He knew a little of
Eastbourne. It is a good enough place in which to glut the cynical
maw of disappointed authorship, better than its bigger neighbours on
either side, because it is so new, so pleased with itself, so convinced, like
Boston State, that it is *' the hub of the universe." What a feast was
here for a moody scribbler ! Not that he meant to write about it :
that was not his idea of a holiday, but it would give him someone else
to be angry with.

He was tired of being angry with insensate publishers. He would
seek other objects for his wrath— the prosperous little tradesman, the
local meteorologist, the brainless, knickcrbockered "blood."

So, firstly, he had decided to go to Eastbourne.

And, secondly, in his wicked perversity, he luid flung himself into
a boarding-house. Here, too, there would be material for acid com-
ment, or there is no faith in Holmes and in Balzac. He liad often
declared to admiring but incredulous friends that he would some day
spend a week or so in a boarding-house. Now should be the time.
His expectations were not wholly disappointed. There was the
*' relative in bombazine " to the verj- life ; I do not say that he could have
sworn to the material. True, Miss Shairp was not called upon to
repress the hungrj* clamourers for "buckwheat cakes": the fees
charged being such as to ensure a sufficiency of that or any other
commodity in reason, however *'skerce and high." Rather was it
her function to keep ever-green the memory of her patroness's deceased
husband : to chill thereby the flippancy of the young, and stimulate
the ghostly anticipations of the old. Pire Goriot there was
none ; as indeed how should there be in a boarding-house which has
advertised itself for these ten years as being *^ under entirely new
management," and in a fashionable English watering-place under

^■im ■

HEt^ dts Pr^vemms. 7

management almost as nev? And had tbere hfrry Ac ■■—""■* 2sd
pathos of his cfaaractgr would aEke have be^ ^rova aa»r apoB
MddnuD, whose ofasenatirc bcnky had aircadj fetsad a peace cf

concentiatioa.

Among the connony with vfaota be su down in ^Saoercatfee
erenii^ of ha anifal, thoevas one of wbooi be sdc! s> ^Base% as
he retired to his own room, diat here ia the iob was bb ideal d
vcHnanhood. As somrthnrs happmi in spch caae^ he wocLd !
been sordj puzzled to dfscxibe her. He fcacv diae she «i
thing abore the xweagt heigbc of woman, that her haar wja iiaek,
that she was dressed in bbck. And diose «*ze fvo£a^ :be coif
solid &cts in his pofwrainn. As to her a^ be ibooffx at £:sc tbat
she was about tvent^, hot, in the tighe of sd»cqscEC onar'^Twym, he
conceded her a possible mai)^ of five j^arsicar*:. HeEadorigHa^
supposed her to be the danghrrr of an tSiAe^laijwbomxoeaigaiatd
her, but irtten Mrs. Windsor, their hostess, addressed her as Mn.
VenaU he derided diat she was a widow, and be soon leamc fpxn ha
own words that the elder ladjwas her annL Like fasmseSf , bcch Ia<£cs
toc^ bntlittlepait in the convention of the table; andastbef had
a private sittii^-room, be seMom saw them, during die fint wecx of
his stay, except at meals. Yet in that time be bad made up fass mfnd
that Mrs. Vemll icptcacnled the perfectioo of fieminine grace and
beauty ; that every word of her mooth, every tboc^ of ber brain,
was instinct with a saperfanman delicacy; and Ust, bo: not kast, that
this creature of another qriiere wu gjadoosiy disposed to take a
compassicmate interest in his unworthy sell

This was precis^ why be was going away to-morrow. Had not
Dorothea, in the fulness of her beait, cast upon him the eye of
sympathy (the demcmstiation, it should here be said, had been evoked
by the sig^t of an aboonnaHy large and heavily laden envelope which
Meldrum had found on his [date at breaklast one nximii^) he would
perhaps have alloired himsdf f^ weeks to come the lazozy of con-
templation. But as things were, be felt that be could not sUy much
longer in the same house with Mrs. Venall without making a fool of
himself, as he rightly termed it : for a man may not marry a goddess
with no more at his back than jQzoo a year certain, plus professional
earnings at the rate of a guinea a week. He must give the goddess
up.

The process of abandonment had now lasted for ten days. And
now came a stroi^er temptation.

AmcMig Mrs. Windsor's guests was a solicitor, named Bannister,
dear to his hostess as her fiist-bom. A mad fdlow, this Baxmister.

8 The Genilevtan's Magazine.

He would quip you, crank you, and so forth, by tlic hour, if you
would ; and by the meal, whether you would or no.

Only Dorothea, who certainly knew how to "look presumption
out of countenance," was secure from his sallies. Twice he had
originated and perfected some amateur theatrical abomination, and
was even now suspected of mediuting a third attempt. Between
him and Meldrum there existed a silent animosity, based not merely
on incomi>atibility of tastes, for it may be questioned whether
Bannister would ever have acted on grounds so intangible, but
on a grave misdemeanour of Meldmm's. Bannister, it seems, had a
cure of souls within the house, combining sprightliness with piety in
a way which won all hearts. Every morning at breakfast he would
execute a Grace, during which a man might, with due regard both to his
God and to his belly, have worked through from his Benedichts
btnedicat well-nigh to his Bemdicto benedicatttr. Then beneath a
doubtful collar tucking a napkin where doubt was not he would fall
to and tackle God's good bacon with a holy zest. Now, on the
occasion of Meldrum's first meai in the house Providence, tempering
the wind to the shorn lamb, had ordained that Bannister should be
absent They had accordingly met for the first time at the breakfast-
table on the following morning. Meldrum, uncertain as to the
elasticity of the breakfast-hour, n'os punctual. Opposite to him on
he table was a large covered dish. Almost opposite to him was
Dorothea. He laid an officious hand upon the cover. " Let ms first"
warned Bannister, with a glance towards Meldrum in which wrath
was duly seasoned with unctuous pity. The cover was already on
high, Meldrum was already looking towards Dorothea, when he
realised the voice, now flowing in relentless periods, with a tincture
of acidity for which he suspected that he was responsible. All
through the lengthy declamation Meldrum stuck to his cover like a
man, regarding with ambiguous gravity the dish of eggs and bacon,
which seemed to throw up its steam with a sort of rollicking unholiness.

The thing was unpardonable.

Meldrum's resolute taciturnity had so far baffled Bannister's
desire for revenge. Bui he waited his opportunity.

Now Miss Shairp was inquisitive, and had charge oftheletter-bag.
That large envelope of Meldrum's, which had called forth the
sympathetic glance from Dorothea, had not escaped her \igihnce.
It bore, on the other side, the name of a publisher. Here was a
discovery I Mr. Meldrum was an author. Bubbling with excitement,
Miss Shairp yet kept her secret for many days. At dinner this
evening it was fated to come out.

L'Ecoie des Privenus, 9

The entertainment-man was darkly hinting at his theatrical plans.
But Miss Shairp made up her mind to go one better.

" Ah, Mr. Bannister^" she exclaimed, " I've got something new."

** Well, Miss Shairp, what's that ? " with a great air of impartiality.
" Everyone in his turn, you know. Let's play fair ; that's what I
say. Let everyone have his chance. If your game's better than
mine — why, let's have your game."

" Ladies," said Miss Shairp mysteriously, " you may not know
that there is a real live author among us."

A horrible fear caused Meldrum's heart to stand still There
was a feminine rustle of anticipation.

"Am I not right, Mr. Meldnim?"

A chorus of remorseless voices assailed the poor wretch, demand-
ing that he should " read them something."

This was gall and wormwood to Bannister. Meldrum, of all
people ! How long should the ungodly prosper ? The possibility
that the request should be otherwise than gratifying to his enemy
would never have occurred to him, had he not seen Meldrum's face
at the moment. Then he understood and used his opportunity.

"Now, Mr. Meldrum," he urged, "you won't refuse the ladies?"
(" The ladies " were for ever in his mouth.)

Meldrum souffrmt en damni. He screwed out some lame
excuse.

To add to his torment was beyond Bannister's ingenuity. He
returned to his theatricals, drunk with revenge.

Meldrum's glance wandered round the table until it lighted on
Dorothea. Once more he basked in divine compassion.

When, a few minutes later, Bannister led his chattering troupe
from the room, Dorothea lingered behind with her aunt. She turned
to Meldrum, who was waiting for her to pass out.

" Mr. Meldrum," she said, " won't you relent, and read us some
of your book? We should both enjoy it so much — shouldn't we,
Aunt?"

"Certainly, my dear," said good Aunt Jane, "if Mr. Meldrum
would be so kind as to read it to us upstairs, where we shall not be
disturbed."

This was quite another thing. Meldrum murmured grateful
acceptance, yet not without misgiving. To present at the altar
MS. which had been saved from the paper-basket only by its regular
accompaniment of postage-stamps— what irreverence was this? He
compounded with his conscience by calling it rather an appeal to a
higher court

The Gentleman s Magazine,

" But I warn you," he addcd^ " that I am a rejected scribbleri a
Failure of three years' standing. '

"Nevermind, Mr. Mddrutn, you shall find acceptance at last.
We will wait here, if you will bring the MS."

He might have been a six-year-old child sent to fetch his broken
toy. This was Dorothea's fearless, maternal way with the objects
of her pity.

Meldrum did not recognise maternity in this youthful guise.
(After all, he was about four years older than Dorothea.) Let us
confess with shame that her conduct had filled him with a certain
almost vulgar compbccnc)'. Must he indeed give the goddess up ?
She was within his grasp ! It was hard, but ;^200 a year plus a
guinea a week. lie must steel himself.

On his return to the dining-room be was conducted upstairs to
the temporary shrine.

Aunt Jane, pleading the infirmity of years, took possession of a
sofa in one corner of the room, Dorothea sat down by the fire, and,
pointing to a chair opposite, ordered Meldrum to begin.

Now that it came to the point Meldrum found that he was
unable to begin. The difficulty had not occurred to him until
now, but he had never been able to screw up his courage to the
point of reading aloud. He remembered an occasion on which his
steady refusal to read Tennyson to a certain persistent lady of his
acquaintance had brought him into a situation scarcely less em-
barrassing than that of the dinner-table a few minutes ago. But to
read one's own stuff— without even the confidence that is begotten
of publication ! SVith scarcely more difficulty he could have joined
in the fatuous antics of Bannister's company downstairs. He
implored Dorothea to read the MS. herself.

"But,"' she objected, "I can't read aloud either, Mr. Meldrum;
and if I read it to myself, what is Aunt to do ? "

Now Aunt Jane, as Dorothea became aware at the moment, was
palpably asleep. Her objection therefore becoming invalid, she took
the MS., and read for some time in silence.

Meldrum sat awaiting her verdict with due meekness ; his
thought alternating, if truth be told, bet^Ycen " The Grey Goose "
(chat was his title) and the weekly guine>i5.

When Dorothea had got through some thirty pages she paused
and looked up.

" Yi3. But you know, Mr. Meldrum, you mustn't c;»ll a poor
girl'GUdys.'"

" Ob, she desen'es all that, as youll see, if you go on."

VEcole des Pr^enus, \ i

" But does the reader ? However, youVe managed to keep the
' w ' out of it, which is something."

" Well, you know best. What am I to call her then ? "

" H'm. How would ' Dorothea ' do ? "

" I suppose everyone has some names which he keeps sacred
from the profanation of his own scribblings. Now for me there is
only one Dorothea."

She scarcely repressed a start.

" In ' Middlemarch,' you know."

" Oh, I see ; yes."

Her momentary confusion did not escape Meldrum. " By Jove,"
was his imspoken soliloquy, "there'll be another Dorothea for me
soon, if I'm not careful." Whence we may conclude : firstly, that
he gathered from the little start that Mrs. Verrall's Christian name
was Dorothea ; secondly, that the said confusion did not tend to
diminish her attractions ; and, thirdly, that Meldrum had a very
tolerable opinion of himself.

" Well," said Dorothea, " that must be altered somehow. If it
were not for one or two little things like that, the story would do
very well, so far ; " and she resumed her reading.

Meldrum, sitting opposite, drank unchecked of her beauty, till
a vinous complacency crept over him.

He was particularly grateful to her in that she was called
Dorothea. The name guided his contemplations. He bethought
him again of " Middlemarch," ever his text-book. He tried to fit
upon her the delicious amethyst episode. It baffled him. Who
shall pierce beneath the face of perfect womanhood, and view the
crude religious flutterings of an unfledged soul ? Casaubon, too :
bad she had her Casaubon ? It suited his mood to believe that she
had. His thoughts waxed eloquent Some brain-crammed, heart-
starved Cambridge don, some dusty blue-bottle of the combination
room, battened for monotonous years on college pedantry and
college port, and breaking at last his heaven-ordained confinement,
to fasten with vampire greed upon this flower — God's gift, but
not to him. Ugh ! A less revolting picture. The perfect scene
with Lydgate, towards the end of the story. There was the
keynote to this Dorothea's character, as to that of her prototype.
Sympathy !

The frigid calculation of weekly guineas recurred to him. He
fiung it from him, and clothed himself in courage.

" With sympathy to back me, what may I not do— become ? "

Dorothea, engrossed in her MS., looked up— somewhat at a loss

The Gentleman s Magazine.

for the connection. How long bad he been talking, and she
ignoring him ?

" Be assured, Mr. Meldrum, you have my fullest sympathy."

The words were perfunctory, but not the lone.

He rose, and drew near to her chair.

"Mrs. Verrall— Doro "

" Mr. Meldrura ! '*

He stood petrified— his attitude the perfection of awkwardness.
As Dorothea watched him, indignation gave way to amusement.
Take for similitude a dog — willing of spirit, but weak of flesh — dis-
covered with forepaws on the breakfast- table, the forbidden rasher
palpable within his jaws.

"What can excuse me? You know what I would have asked? "

Impossible to say " Yes."

" WIml do you mean, Mr. Meldrum?"

"I would have asked— that your sympathy — that your** (he
stumbled on the word like a schoolboy) — " that your love might be
mine."

" You know that I am married ?"

Meldrum sat back, stupefied, into the chair behind him, while
Dorothea quietly resumed her reading. It did not take him long to
rally his senses. Her matronly composure stung him deliciously.
Vanity was absorbed in re\'erence. He caught himself thinking
that she would be even more charming as Barbcrine than as Dorothea.
I^t the reader feel no alarm ; there was not iwopennyworth of Roscm-
berg in Mcldnim's composition.

"Mrs. Verrall, will you— can you— forgive my idiocy?"

"Never mind that, Mr. Meldrum. Now let us be practical
Have you shown this to any publishers ? "

"Yes ; every publisher in London, I should think."

"Verrall and Beevor?"

"Er-no."

"But why not?"

"Mr. Verrall is an old acquaintance of mine. One doesn't like
to force one's stuff on a man in that way. Is ?"

"Oh, what nonsense I Mr. Meldrum, you will ne\er make your
way. You mustn't consider your friends. You mu3t/«M.'* Doro-
thea spoke with authority. She knew the world; she. as the
reader is aware, pushed. " How long have you known Mr.
Verrall?"

"I knew him a long time ago. I haven't seen him for yean."
At last he could get his question in. " U that Mr. VermU ? "

LEcoU des Privenus. 13

"That Mr. Venall is my husband, yes. We must make him
publish it."

" But, Mrs. Veirall — I can't thank you enough for your kind-
ness— but it really isn't fair."

''Oh," with delicious candour, "it will have to be altered a
good deal, of course— quite rewritten in some parts."

Meldrum found that, under circumstances, he could enjoy
humiliation.

" You really think it is worth altering — rewriting ? "

"Of course it is; you know it is. Mr. Meldrum, an author
should be above petty self-disparagement."

He would have sought to merit further reproof. But Dorothea
resumed:

" However, you must send it first, and have Mr. Verrall's opinion
on the book as it stands."

" But "

" Now you are going to make excuses. I shall send it myself,
to-night. Only you must write me a few lines to enclose with it.
You can do that here."

Protest was useless. Meldrum sat down at a writing-table.
The letter only took him five minutes. When it was finished, he
received his dismissal.

All this had taken place on a Monday evening. On Thursday
Dorothea received a letter from John, which we shall take the
liberty of publishing :

My dear Dorothea, — Do not suppose for a moment that
this is a letter of submission. I am still good for another week or
so ; after which period I foresee that I shall be " reasonable," for
mere want of someone to pour out my coffee. It was a dastardly
stroke to take Aunt Jane with you. But mind : my reasonableness
will extend only so far as to read this abomination : publishing is
quite another matter. Meanwhile I have other, and (my last
flicker of independence) better fish to fry. Have you at Quebec
House come across a man named Meldrum ? If so, you have met
the George Eliot of our generation (though who shall persuade you
that any man may bear comparison with her?) Perhaps I may
have mentioned his name to you before, as he is an old acquaint-
ance of mine, though I have not seen him now for many years. I
had no idea that he possessed any literary ability — or even ambi-
tion— until I received from him on Tuesday last a couple of MSS.
<Mi which I have been occupied ever since. One of these— the

The Gentkmans Magazine.

earlier— has evidently been ihe round of the publishers. It is'
called "The Grey Goose." It has enough errors of treatment and
construction to account for its failure : yet, on a more attentive
reading, its good points arc so apparent that I can persuade myself,
though with difficulty, that the man who wrote "A Student of
Pascal" may have exercised his 'prentice hand on "The Grey
Goose." As to the later book, I may possibly cool down a little :
at present, it appears to me faultless — the work of a master.
Evidently, Meldrum only sent the " Goose " as an afterthought, for
his letter only mentions "a MS." But I have no doubt it may be
worked into shape : I accordingly hope to come to terms with him
about both books. The marvel is that he should have found no
pubHisher : for it is impossible that these two should be consecutive
books; he must ha\'e written a great deal in between. I have
asked him to come up and see me as soon as he can. I am only
sorry that you will not be here to receive him : for I will not deny
you a certain passive intelligence in things literary. Now, shall we
make a compromise? Come back at once, and I will read the
thing : but under protest, and on the understanding that nothing
of the sort is to occur again. Let mc know your decision.

I remain, Madam, your obedient servant, ^m

JOHX VeRRALL. ^

It was in ber own room that Dorothea read this letter. When
she had finished it she flung herself upon her unoffending aunt and
went near to strangling her.

*' My dear, what is the matter?" asked the victim mildly.

Dorothea deigned no oral explanation, but, sitting down, wTote a '
short note, which she handed to Aunt Jane.

" Is not this wifely obedience ? " she asked. ^H

Aunt Jane read : '■

My dear John, — ^^Ve will come home to-morrow. As to the
MS., you need not read it. I will have nothing done under protest.

Yours,

Dorothea.

*' My dear," was her comment, " I am very glad. You are a good
child, Dorothea, John was in the wrong. Does he ask you to come
home?"

" Yes ; but of course he does not admit that he was in the WTong."

" Men never do," said Aunt Jane, of her experience ; and added
again, " but you are a good child."

" Yes," Dorothea assented.

LEcoU des Prdvenus. 15

Preseatly there was a knock at the door. Meldrum appeared.

" May I come in ? I am afraid, Mrs. Venall, that there has been
some mistake about that unlucky MS. of mine."

" Yes, I know," said Dorothea ; " I made a mistake. I will ex-
plain, but not now. Mr. Meldrum, I want you to promise mc
something."

" I promise."

" Say nothing to Mr. Verrall, and write nothing to him, until you
have my permission to do so."

"So be it."

" I am going home to-morrow, and will explain the mistake to
Mr. VerralL That will be better than writing."

" Mr. Verrall has asked me to see him about the MS., my MS.,
so I shall be going up too."

"When?"

" To-morrow." He meant it this time.

" Then you shall look after us and our luggage."

Meldrum dined with the Verralls on the following night, for
the party had arrived within half an hour of their usual dinner-
hour.

The meal was almost as silent as the last which John and
Dorothea had together, despite the presence of a guest. Indeed}
Meldrum was perhaps the most silent of the party. He was uneasy
about the mysterious MS. which had, it seemed, accompanied bis
own. John Verrall's mind was full of the same subject, from another
point of view. So was Dorothea's. Aunt Jane alone showed due
composure. There seemed to be a tacit agreement that no "shop"
should be talked until dinner was over.

Meldrum would drink nothing, and the quartette repaired together
to the drawing-room. But Aunt Jane disappeared at once on some
household errand.

Verrall could hold his peace no longer.

" Meldrum," he exclaimed, " I can't put those two books together.
Tell me all about them. What have you written in between ? The

' Student of Pascal ' is genius ; the other " He stopped, finding

no convenient expression.

Meldrum, remembering his promise, looked appealingly at
Dorothea.

She realised that she had been inconsiderate— almost ungenerous.
She sought to make amends, and at the same time to disburden
herself of her secret

The Genthmans Magazine,

" To say truth, Mr. Meldrum, my husband is no critic. And in
this case I fear marital prejudice is at work in my favour."

He knew all. He seized Dorothea by the wrists.

" You ? " he gasped. " Let me look at you. You wrote it ?
The * Student of Pascal is yours ? " He knelt before his *' fair and
strong and terrible lioness." *' Dorothea, trample on me. I am a
worm .ind no man. Dorothea" — words failed him. "Dorothea,
try my faith. Order me to publish a railway guide, on hand-made
paper, with illustrations by Myrbach. Trample."

Dorothea trampled, with dainty precision :

N'ous Kroa£. par nos lois, Ics ji^ges des ouvrages ;
Par nos lois, prose el vers, tout nous sera soutnis :
Nul n'aura de Tesprit, hora dou» el nos amis.
Nous chcrchciotu partout & trouvei i^ redire,
Et ne verroni que nous qui sachent bien ^crire.

Verrall sprang to his feet. There was yet a red rag for this tame
bull — Alexandrine verse, spoken ; written, he could endure it as well
as another man.

"To the woman who can quote five consecutive lines of Moliire
and flinch not, publishing is child's play. Dorothea, the fair fame
of Verrall, Bcevor and Verrall is in your keeping."

He made for the door, dragging Meldrum with him.

But worse was to come. Dorothea was on her mettle. She
intercepted Meldrum's flight.

Vous, St vous connaisset des maris pr^veniui,
Eavoyez>les, &u moins, i I'^cole chez nout.

At the moment j\unt Jane entered.

Verrall gave her a warning touch as Meldrum passed out of the
room.

*' Your niece, madam,'* he said, with complex irreverence, " is
grievously vexed "

Dorothea slammed the door in time.

Criticism came hissing through the keyhole : " Unfeminine ! "

A SUSSEX PEPYS,

WILLIAM COWPER, who was afterwards Lord Chancellor,
writing to his wife in 1690 from the comparatively civilised
neighbourhood of Kingston-on-Thames, excused himself for not
having written from Horsham — where he had been attending cir-
cuit— on the plea that they had to send their letters six miles thence
by special messenger to meet the post. Of the condition of rural
Sussex at that time he gives a deplorable account " The Sussex
ways," he says, "are bad and ruinous beyond imagination. I vow
'tis a melancholy consideration that mankind will inhabit such a
heap of dirt for a poor livelihood. The country is a sink of about
fourteen miles broad, which receives all the water that falls from two
long ranges of hills on both sides of it ; and, not being furnished
with convenient drainage, is kept moist and soft by the water till the
middle of a dry summer, which is only able to make it tolerable to
ride for a short time."

Very little substantial improvement seems to have been effected
within the following fifty or sixty years. The roads continued to be
impassable for the greater part of the year. The only way of
getting about was on horseback — the husband riding with his wife
on a pillion behind him \ a slip of road was made hard for horse-
men by the refuse slag from the extinct ironworks, the rest of the
roadway being available only in the middle of summer.

It followed, therefore, that those who lived and carried on their
business in the remoter Sussex towns and villages led singularly
isolated lives, and of their habits and customs, amusements and
mode of life, but few records have reached us. One curiously in-
teresting one, however, survives in the diaries of one Thomas
Turner, a tradesman of East Hothly, the manuscript of which
having remained in the possession of his descendants for a century
or more, came at last under the observation of Messrs. R. W.
Blencowe and M. A. Lower, and formed the subject of a paper
which was added to the collections of the Sussex Archaeological
Society in 1859.

VOL. ccxci. NO. 3047. c

The Gentleman s Magazine,

In East Hothly, which ronxied the centre of a district bounded
on one side by the sea and on the other by a swampy, ill-drained
land intersected by almost impassable roads, Thomas Turner carried
on the business oT general shopkeeper, a trade which, it has been
whispered, has been the foundation of the fortunes of many well-
to-do Sussex families of to-day. The old Sussex mercer was the
precursor of the "stores" and the "universal provider" of the
present day ; he dealt in e\erj'thing, from a flat-iron to a coffin ; he
was grocer, draper, haberdasher, hatter, clothier, druggist, iron-
monger, stationer, glover, undertaker, &c

There is an old Weald of Sussex story which relates how that a
Londoner, amused at the miscellaneous business carried on at one of
ll\ese local stores, determined to pose its proprietor by asking for
something which he could not supply. "Well, Mr. Smith," he
began, " you sell everything, don't you ? " *' Not everything, sir,"
replied Mr. Smith, " but a good many things." " Well," said the
Londoner, " I want a second-hand pulpit ; you can't supply that, I
suppose?" '*Wcll, yes, sir, I can," answered Smith, "for our
church has been new-pewed lately, and as I'm churchwarden, I
happen just now to have a second-hand pulpit left in stock."

I believe the stor)- has of late years changed its venue to West-
bourne Grove, and been modified to suit the altered conditions ; but
this is the true and original version, which was an ancient tradition a
century ago.

Whether Thomas Turner's trade was as varied as this docs not
appear from the diary, but if we may trust its accuracy, business was
ver)- dull during the greater part of llic eleven years (February 1754
to July 1765) over which the record extends, entry after entry being
devoted to bitter complaints of bad trade and doleful forebodings as
to what would become of him and his family. It seems probable
that Thomas Turner was somewhat of a croaker, given to look on
the gloomy side of things, or else that in the latter years of his life,
after he had given up dlar>' -keeping, his business must have con-
siderably improved — possibly with the help of the money brought
to him by his second wife, for it is certain that on his death in 1789
he left a very flourishing esLiblishment to his son, whose turn-over
tveragcd from ^50,000 to ^^70,000 a year for many years.

Thomas Turner, the diarist, was a native of Groombridgc, in
Kent, where he was born in 1 728. He is said to have been a man
of good family. At any rate his tastes were probably far in advance
of those of the majority of his contemporaries. He was an omnivo-
rous reader, and in the course of a few weeks he mentions having

A Sussex P€pys, 19

lead Gay's poems, Stewart "On the Supreme Being," "The Whole
Duty of Man," "Paradise Lost and Regained," Tillotson's
"Sermons," "Othello," "The Universal Magazine," Thomson's
"Seasons," Young's "Night Thoughts," Tournefort's "Voyage
to the Levant," and " Peregrine Pickle."

His criticisms were sometimes amusing and often just. " Clarissa
Harlowe" he looked upon "as a very well wrote thing, though it
must be allowed to be too prolix," but the emotional side of him
was touched when his wife read him the account of poor Clarissa's
funeral, and he breaks out with " Oh ! may the Supreme Being give
me grace to lead my life in such a manner as my exit may in some
measure be like that divine creature's."

It is impossible to acquit Mr. Turner of a certain amount of
pose. It was a hard-drinking time, and the good Thomas drank as
hard as any, and he was as frank about his misdoings as Pepys him-
self, but he had always one eye on the future possible reader of his
lucubrations, so the over-night's debauch was always made the text
for a moral and improving discourse, the fervour of which seems to
be in exact proportion to the severity of the headache the potations
had left behind them. Possibly Thomas Turner was not altogether
a humbug ; a man of his literary tastes must have found the amuse-
ments of his neighbours and friends somewhat unsatisfying, but he
never seems to have had the strength of mind to resist temptation.
"Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor" might have been his
motto, had he understood Latin, which it does not appear that he did.

He started his diary with the best intentions in the world :

"Sunday, February 8, 1754. — As I by experience find how much
more conducive it is to my health, as well as pleasantness and
serenity to my mind, to live in a low moderate rate of diet, and as I
know I shall never be able to comply therewith in so strickt a manner
as I should chuse by thd unstable and over easyness of my temper,
I think it therefore fit to draw up Rules of proper Regimen, which I
do in the manner and form following, which I hope I shall always
have the strictest regard to follow, as I think they are not inconsis-
tent with either religion or morality."

The Regimen thus formally prescribed was exact in every
particular, leaving little to chance or accident : to rise early, to
breakfast between seven and eight o'clock, to dine between twelve
and one, and never to go to bed later than ten o'clock were funda-
mental conditions. At dinner he was to eat sparingly of meat, but
plentifully of garden-stuff ; supper was to consist of weak broth,
water-gruel or milk pottage, varied occasionally with a fruit pie.

c a

The GeniiemaH^s Magazine.

As regards the extent of his potations Mr. Turner was pedanti-
cally exact. Whether at home, or in company abroad, he pledged
himself never to drink more than four glasses of strong beer ; one to
toast the King's health, the second to the Royal Family, the third to
all friends, and the fourth to the pleasure of the company. If there
were wine or punch the aUowancc was to be eight glasses, each glass
to hold no more than half a quarter of a pint.

Alas for good resolutions ! At this time Turner combined the
duties of a schoolmaster writh his ordinary business. He seems
hardly to have been a judicious instTxictor of youth, if one may judge
from an entry on June 20, which, being his birthday, he celebrated
by treating his scholars to five quarts of strong beer. Turner gave
up his school in 1756.

Mrs. Turner's family appear to have lived at Lewes, her constant
visits to which place were very distasteful to her husband, who keeps
careful record of their domestic bickerings on this subject. "Oh 1 "
he writes on June 30, "what happiness must there be in the
married slate when there is a sincere regard on both sides, and each
partie truly satisfied with each other's merits ! But it is impossible
far tongue or pen to express the uneasiness that attends the contrary."

On another occasion he laments : " Alas ! what can be said of a
woman's temper and thought ? Business and family advantage must
submit to their pride and pleasure ; but though I mention this of
women, it may, perhaps, be as justly applyed to men ; but most
people are blind to their own follies. " Surely a hnndsome admission.

Much of this domestic strife seems, in his own words, to have
been " fermented " by other parties, notably by the inevitable
motherin-law, Mrs, Slater, whom he describes as a very Xantippe,
"havinga great volubility of tongue forinvcctive, and especially if I am
the subject, though alas ! what the good woman wants with nic I know g
not, unless it be that 1 liave offended her by being too careful of h^^^l
daughter, who, poor crcatm-e, has enjoyed but little pleasure in \\m^
marriage state, being almost continually, to our great misfortune,
afflicted with illness."

One of the earliest entries in the diary refers to his carrj'ing down
'some shagg for a pair of breeches for Mr. Porter." Tlic Kev.
Richard Porter, M.A., had been inducted lo the living of Easi
Hothly in 1742- He wji* a man of learning, and it is on record that
he engaged Waller Gale, the schoolmaster of MayAcld, lo tran&aribo
" A Translation from I.onginus of Sappho/' which he had an
translated into Sapphic vcnic. to the sound, time, and metre with
original Grctrk.

A Sussex Pepys, 21

With r^;ard to the parson's breeches, it appears that in East
Hothly there existed a special provision for the furnishing of these
necessary items of the clerical attire. Some generations before, a
wealthy and benevolent lady in the parish having observed that her
pastor's nether garments were in an unseemly state of disrepair,
[ffesented him and his successors for ever with a piece of woodland,
attached to the glebe, the proceeds from which were to be devoted
to the repair and renewal of the vicar's garments.

Probably the Reverend Richard Porter stood less in need of the
help of the " Breeches Wood," as it was called, than many of his
predecessors, since he married the daughter and co-heiress of a
Yorkshire gentleman of fortune.

Mrs. Porter seems at one time to have been disposed to give
herself airs towards the good people of East Hothly, and her
behaviour, on one occasion at least, deeply offended Mr. Turner.

On May 20, 1756, he writes : " This day I went to Mr. Porter's
to inform him that the liveiy lace was not come, when I think Mrs.
Porter treated me with as much imperious and scornful usage as if
she had been, what I think she is, more of a Turk and infidel than a
Christian, and I an abject slave."

It is satisfactory to know that the lady unbent later on, and,
indeed, went to extraordinary lengths of affability, as will appear
from an entry in the diary on February 25 in the following year:
" This morning, about six o'clock," he writes, "just as my wife was
got to bed, we were awaked by Mrs. Porter, who pretended she
wanted some cream of tartar; but as soon as my wife got out of
bed she vowed she should come down. She found Mr. Porter,
Mr. Fuller, and his wife, with a lighted candle and part of a bottle of
wine and a glass. The next thing was to have me downstairs, which,
being apprised of, I fastened my door. Upstairs they came, and
threatened to break it open ; so I ordered the boys to open it, when
they poured into my room, and, as modesty forbid me to get out of
bed, so I refrained ; but their immodesty permitted them to draw
me out of bed, as the common phrase is, topsy-turvey ; but, however,
at the intercession of Mr. Porter, they gave me time to put on my
wife's petticoats; and in this manner they made me dance, without
shoes and stockings, untill they had emptied the bottle of wine and
also a bottle of my beer. . . . About three o'clock in the afternoon
they found their way to their respective homes, beginning to be a
little serious and, in my opinion, ashamed of their stupid enterprise
and drunken preambulation. Now, let anyone call in reason to his
assistance and seriously reflect on what I have before recited, and

The Gentleman' s Magaziiu.

thef will join with me in thinking that the precepts delivered from
the pulpit on Sunday, though delivered with the greatest ardour,
must lose a great deal of their efficacy by such examples."

A few days later — it being Sunday, March 3 — " We bad as good
a sermon as I ever heard Mr. Porter preach, it being against swearing."
Mr. Porter seems, like the Puntans of " Hudibras," to have com-
pounded for the

(ins lie was ioclinetl to,
By damnine those he bad no tnimi (o.

Swearing he objected to, but getting drunk, wnthout using bad
language, he called " innocent mirth ; but 1, in opinion," says the
moral Turner, " differ much therefrom."

The same party met the same week at Mr. Joseph Fuller's, where
"we continued drinking like horses, ajj the vulgar phrase is, and
singing till many of us were very drunk, and then we went to dancing
and pulling of wigs, caps, and hats ; and thus wc continued in this
frantic manner, behaving more like mad people than they that profess
the name of Christians. Whether this is consistent to the wise saying
of Solomon, let any one judge: 'Wine is a mocker, strong drink is
raging, and he that is deceived thereby is not wise.' "

Following upon this was an evening of " innocent mirth " at the
Reverend Mr. Porter's, a pathetic comment upon which appears in
the diary entry of the following day :

" At home all day. Ver>' piteous I "

The round of orgies was completed by a meeting of the same
party at Turner's own house— an invitation affair this time, not ai
surprise-part)- like the last. After which he writes :

" Now I hope all revelling for this season is over ; and may I
never more be discomposed with so much drink, or by the noise of
an obstrepertous multitude, but that I may calm my troubled mind
and soothe my disturbed conscience."

Lest it be supposed that there was anything very unclcrical in the
conduct of Mr. Porter, according to the customs of his time, it may
be well to (juote here an entry of a later date, referring to another pillar
of the Church : —

" Mr. , the curate of T^ughton, came to the shop in the
forenoon, and he having bought some things of me (and I could
wish he had paid for them), dined with me, and also staid in the
afternoon till he got in liquor, and being so complaisant as to keep
him company, I was quite drunk. How I do detest myself for being
so foolish."

A Sussex Pepys,

Mr.Turner^s moral remarks and pious ejacubtions, whether they be
aincete or not, add at limes immensely to the humour of his nfurative.

Here is a gem :

** December 25lh. — This being Christmas Day, myself and wife
at church in the morning. We stayed the Communion ; my wife
gave td, ; but they not asking mc^ I gave nothing. Ob ! may wc
increase in faJth and good works, and maintain the good intentions
wc have this day taken up.**

Mr. Turner's experiences as overseer and churchwarden throw
an interesting light upon the conduct of parish business in those
days. On April 19, 1756, he was chosen overseer, and on the
sist went to the audit, " and came home dnuk \ but I think never
to exceed the bounds of moderation more."

It seems to have l)cen the custom for the parish ofliccrs to make
raids, during the service, upon the public-houses; thus on Sunday,
April 25, "as soon as prayers were over, Mr. French and I went
tand searched the public-houses. At Francis Turner's we found a
an and his wife ; they seemed a very sober sort of people, and not
a-drinking, so wc did not meddle with them."

On another occasion, while the Psalms were being sung, he and

the headborough again drew the ale-houses blank, but they caught

tic barber " exercising his trade " ; but as it was a first offence they

□rgave him. They were severely Sabbatarians these pious Sussex

jllipplcrs.

The year after his election as overseer Mr. Turner was chosen
diurchwarden, for which he paid 4J. 6^., and got home about
to P.M. — "Thank God, very safe and sober ! "

Vestry meetings in those days, as occasionally at the present
lime, were conducted with a good deal of heat. " We had several
warm arguments at the vestry today," he writes, " and several
volHes of execrable oaths oftcntinics redounded from allmost all
parts of the room. A most rude and shocking thing at publick
Dcetings."

The follon-ing account of the way in which an undesirable
parishioner was got rid of is instructive : " I went down to Jones's
to the publick vestry. It was the unanimous consent of all present
to give to Tho. Daw, upon condition that be should buy the house
in the parish of Waldron for which he bath been treating, by
reason tliat he would then be an inhabitant of Waldron, and dear
of OUT parish, lialfc a tun of iron, ^10; a chaldron of coals, &:c.,
j^3 ; in cash, j^S ; and find him the sum of j£^3o, for which be Is
10 pay interest, for to buy the said house ; a fine present for a man

The Gentleman s Magazine.

that has already about j^So I but yet, I believe it is a very prudent
step in the parish, for he being a man with but one leg, and very
contrar}' witball, and his wife being entirely deprived of that great
Messing, eyesight, ihere is great room to suspect there would, one
lime or other, happen a great charge to the parish, there being a
very increasing family ; and I doubt the man is none of the most
prudent, he having followed smuggling very much in time past,
which has brought him into a trifling way of life."

Another instance of this free and easy way of dealing with
public money is aflbrded by the calling of a vestry meeting in the
churchyard, one Sunday after service, to dctcnnine whether the sum
of six guineas should be lent, on the parish account, to Francis
Turner, to enable him to pay a debt for which he was threatened
with arrest on the Monday. The meeting unanimously decided
that Francis should have the money, which was neighbourly, if, to
us, it appears irregular. Arrest for debt was no joke in those days,
however, and our Thomas Turner, who seems to have been a kind-
hearted fellow, was sorely perplexed throughout several days of his
diary, as to whether he had not been guilty of oppression in putting into
the law)-cr's hands a fellow who had owed him a debt for four years.

Recruiting for the Navy was a sweetly simple process then :
'* Master Hookc and myself," he writes, " went and searched John
Jones's and Prawle's [probably two ale-houses] in order to see if
there was any disorderly fellows, that he might have them to the
setting to morrow in order to send them to sea. We found none J
tiiat wf thought proper to send." \

It would be interesting to have had Master Thomas Turner's
exact d*;finition of " a disorderly fellow."

The practice of limiting the time of an auction by the burning of
a candle obtained at this time. In this year (1756), Mr. Turner at-
tended a sale of some property in the parish of St. Michael's, Lewes
The candle was lighted at four o'clock, and burnt until eight — four
hours being spent in the disposal of property worth ;^42o.

Trade was bad that year. He exclaims against the dearness of^
all proNisions, wheat being i«. ft bushel, barley Jj., beef ts. a
stone, mutton 3^. a pound. " Oh 1 how dull is trade, how very
scarce is money. Never did I know so bad a time before. What
shall I do? Work I cannot, and honest I will be, if the Almighty
will give me grace."

The echoes of events in the great world reached East Hothly^
albeit slowly. From the following it appears that War Office delays
and mismanagcoicnt are not of modem invention.

A Sussex Pefys. 25

" i8th July, 1756.— I this day heard of the loss of Fort St Philip
and the whole island of Minarco (Minorca), after being possessed by
the English nation forty^even years, and after bemg defended ten
weeks and one day by that truly brave and heroic man, General
Blakeney, and at last was obliged to surrender for want of provisions
and ammunition. No man, I think, can deserve a brighter character
in the annals of fame like this. But, oh I he was, as one may justly
say, abandoned by his country, who never sent him any succouiA
Never did the English nation suffer a greater blot Oh 1 my country,
my country ! Oh, Albian, Albian ! I doubt thou are tottering on
the brink of ruin and desolation this day ! The nation is all in a
foment upon account of losing dear Minorca."

Here are one or two entries made about this time :

"August 22nd. — I sett off for Pittdown, where I saw Charles
Di^ens and James Fowle run twenty rods for one guinea each. I
got never a bet, but very drunk."

The entertainment seems to have been kept up all night :

" 23rd. — Came home in the forenoon, not quite sober. At home
all day, and I know I behaved more like an ass than any human
being — doubtless not like one tliat calls himself a Christian. Oh I
how unworthy am I of that name ! "

Mr. Turner could be quietly sarcastic about his associates some-
times :

" Was fought this day at Jones's a main of cocks between the
gentlemen of Hothly and Pevensey. Query. Is there a gentleman
in either of the places that was consernd ? "

The hop-picking season in Sussex was inaugurated with the
purchase and presentation of a neck-cloth for the pole-puller. This
was of some showy colour, which made him conspicuous in the
garderL The hop-pickers subscribed for the purchase, and the
ceremony, like all the rest of the country celebrations, was reckoned
a fit " excuse for a glass."

" September 20th. — In the even Mr. Porter's hop-pickers bought
their pole-puller's neckcloth."

"September 23rd. — Holland hop-pickers bought their pole-
puller's neckcloth ; and, poor wretches, many of them insensible."

Here is an account of a typical expedition to a neighbouring
town;

"Monday, October 17. — Tho. Currant and I set out on our
journey to Steyning, and arrived there in the even. Next day f
settled with Mr. Burfield ; after this we must needs walk up to
Steyning town, where he had us about from one of his friends'

Th^ Gentlemans Magazine.

houses to another untill we became not verj' sober ; but, however,
we got back to Mr. Burticld's and dined there. After dinner, think-
ing myself capable to undertake such a journey, I came away leaving
Tho. Durrant there, who actual was past riding, or amost anything
else. I arrived home through the providence of God, very well and safe,
about seven ; and, to give Mr. Burfield his just character in the light
wherein he appears to me, he is a very good-tempered man, a kind
and alTectionate husband, an indulgent and tender parent, benevolent
and humane to a great degree, and who seems to have a great
capacity and judgment in his business ; but, after all, a man very
much given to drink." This comes wcU from Thomas Turner.

The Turners' matrimonial felicity does not scera to have become
more assured as time went on. Quarrels were frequent, and recon-
ciliations followed close upon them. On one occasion, all the family
having taken the Sacrament together, he and his wife resolved "to
forsake their sins and to become better Christians, and to bear with
each other's infirmities, and live in peace with all mankind."
Thomas Davey, happening to drop in the same evening, Mr.
Turner read him six of Tillotson's sermons, which seems rather hard
upon Thomas Davey.

In common with many other respectable persons of his time,
Thomas Turner rt^arded church-going and a more or less scrupulous
obser\'ancc of the Fourth Commandment as a cloak for a good many
other irregularities of conduct. He did not always attend church,
but he was always severe upon himself for the omission. One
Sunday he writes :

" I was at home all day, but not at church. Oh, fye ! No just
reason for not being there."

Another time he says :

"No service at our church in the morning or afternoon. I
dined on a roasted goose and applesauce ; I drunk tea with Mr.
Carman and his family. This is not the right use that Sunday
should be applied to. No, it is not."

Notwithstanding his respect for dignitaries, he is very severe, in
his diary, upon the Duke of Newcastle, who was wont to bring a
large party of friends to llalland House, and to spend Sunday in
feasting. This desecration of the Sabbath, coupled with the fact
that the Duke carried several French cooks in his train, induced some
very strong remarks, although, with Mr. Turner's usual
plaisance," he seems to have been a frequent visitor at Halland
where he was on friendly terms with the Duke's steward and man
business, Mr. Coates.

I
I

com- H
land, ^1
an of ^1

A Sussex Pepys. 27

Christmas festirities b^an early and continued late then, as we
banily hear the last of them before March.

The 6rst of the parties recorded in 1757 was on January 26,
when they went to Whyly, and Mr. Turner is careful to record that
they came home " I may say, quite sober," although he proceeds to
explain that he had contracted a slight impediment in his speech,
" occasioned by the fumes of the liquor operating too furiously upon
my brain."

On February snd they supped at Mr. Fuller's and spent the
evening with a great deal of mirth. "Tho. Fuller brought my
wife home upon his back."

A second evening's entertainment at Whyly does not seem to
have borne the morning's reflection quite so well :

" We played at bra^ the first part of the even. After ten we
went to supper, on four boiled chicken, four boiled ducks, minced
veal, sausi^es, cold roast goose, chicken pasty and ham. After
supper our behaviour was far from that of serious harmless mirth; it
was downright obstreperious, mixed with a great deal of folly and
stupidity. Our diversion was dancing or jumping about, without a
violin or any musick, singing of foolish healths, and drinking all the
time as fast as it could be poured down ; and the parson of the
parish was one among the mixed multitude. If conscience " (here
follows the inevitable moral reflection), " if conscience dictates right
from wrong, as doubtless it sometimes does, mine is one that I may
say is soon offended ; for I must say I am always very uneasy at
such behaviour, thinking it not like the behaviour of the primitive
Christians, which I imagine was most in conformity to our Saviour's
gospel. Nor would I be thought to be either a cynick or a stoick,
but let social improving discourse pass round the company. About
three o'clock, finding myself to have as much liquor as would do me
good, I slipt away unobserved, leaving my wife to make my excuse.
Though I was very far from sober, I came home, thank God, very
safe and well, without even tumbling" (this was apparently an
exceptional experience); "and Mr. French's servant brought my wife
home at ten minutes past five " (probably upon his back).

Notwithstanding the frequent recurrence of these jollifications
the badness of the times weighed more and more heavily upon his
spirits. "A very melancholy time," he writes on March 23,
*' occasioned by the deamess of corn, though not proceeding from
a real scarcity but from the iniquitous practice of ingrossers, fore-
stalling, &c."

In July of the same year he complains of " a most prodigious

The Gentleman's Magazine,

melancboHy time," which he atlributes to the increase of luxury,
specially exemplified in the too frequent use of spirituous liquors, and
" the exorbitant practice of tea-drinking, which tias corrupted the
morals of people of almost every rank." As green lea was then 14J.
a pound and more, and bohea 12^. and lor, it seems hardly likely
that the " exorbitant practice " can have descended very low in the
social scale.

The potations of which Mr. Turner writes so often were
probably in the main confined to strong ale. His objection to the
excessive use of spirits is frequently expressed, and in somewhat
more sincere a tone than his MawTvorm-Iike lamentations over his
own backslidings. Curiously enough tea and spirit drinking are
invariably coupled in his complaints about the growth of luxurious
and intemperate habits. Two years later, we find him remarking
that " Custom has brought tea and spirituous liquors so much into
fashion that I dare be bold to say they often, too often, prove our
ruin, and I doubt often, by the too frequent use of both, entail a
weakness upon our progeny."

On October 20, 1758, he " read the * Extraordinary Gazette ' for
Wednesday, which gives an account of our army in America, under
the command of General Woolf, beating the French army under
General Montcalm, near the city of Quebec, wherein both the
generals were killed and the FnglJsh General Monkton, who took
the command after General Woolf was killed, was shot through the
body, but is like to do well ; as also the surrender of the city of
Quebec. Oh ! what a pleasure it is to every tnie Briton to see
what success it pleased Almighty God to bless his Majesty's arms,
they having success at this time in Europe, Asia, Africa, and
America.'*

At Halland, in December, Hawke's victory over the French
fleet was celebrated, and one regrets to le.irn that Mr. Turner spent
an hour and a half trying to get through Mr. l*ortcr's wood on his
way home, "the liquor opperating so much in the head that It
rendered my legges useless,"

On Sunday, October 26, of the year following, he notes the
receipt of the melancholy news of the death of " the King and
parent of our most happy isle, his most august Majesty George II."

Death came nearer to him in June 1761, when he lost his wife,
after a painful illness of thirty-eight weeks. Poor Peggy's contrary
ways were straightway forgotten. Like " the incomparable Mr.
Young," he cries, " let them whoever lost an angel pity me." With
pardonable self-deception he even cheats himself into the belief

A Sussex Pepys, 29

that they lived a life together of undisturbed harmony, and in
lamentiDg over his fiiture tipsy bouts he even ventures to suggest
that he led a more regular life in " dear P^gy's " time.

There is somewhat of a sameness in the diary entries for some
considerable time, laments on bad trade, sorrow for his wife's loss,
and records of drinking bouts with moral reflections thereon recur
with monotonous r^;ularity.

We hear incidentally of Thomas Davy again, and learn with
T^ret that he apparently benefited little by his severe course of
Tillotson's sermons.

** The wife of Thos. Davy was this day delivered of a girl, after
being married only six months ; two people whom I should the
least have suspected of so indiscreet an act. How careful should
we be of ourselves in this particular, &c., &c."

However, he went to the christening, and came home " sober I
Oh 1 how comfortable does that word sound in my ears."

Two years after his wife's death the gossips of East Hothly were
busying themselves with rumours of his second marriage, the effects
of which suggestion are amusingly apparent in his diary. To his
first denials of the possibility of such an occurrence follow an assur-
ance that he has not made any resolution to live single. Presently,
he discovers that " for want of the company of the softer sex I am
become extremely awkward, and a certain roughness of disposition
has seized on my mind," so that he is neither agreeable to himself,
nor can his company be so to others.

One is not surprised, therefore, to read of his walking over to
Lewes one Sunday to see a girl to whom he thought of paying his
addresses. He was still very lukewarm on the subject, and the
young lady not being at home, he had only his walk for his pains,
which, he says, " was, perhaps, as well."

The object of Mr. Turner's well-regulated attachment, Molly
Hicks, although in service at Lewes, was the daughter of a sub-
stantial yeoman at Chiddingtey, with which parish the family was
connected for many generations, and had some considerable expec-
tations of her own.

Three months after his abortive visit to Lewes, we find him
visiting Molly at her father's home, where the ceremony of "sitting
up" was gone through.

" It being an excessive wet and windy night, I had the oppor-
tunity, sure I should say the pleasure, or, perhaps, some might say
the unspeakable happiness, to set up with Molly Hicks, or my
charmer, all night. I came home at forty minutes past five in the

The Gentleman s MagazUu.

morning — I must not say fatigued ; no, no, that could not be ; it
could only be a little sleepy for want of rest. Well, to be sure, she
13 a most clever girl ; but, however, to be serious in the affair, I
certainly esteem the girl, and iliink she appears worthy of my
esteem."

Decidedly, Thomas was not a rapturous lover. In a subsequent
entry in his diary he argues with himself the question of his
marriage in as judicial a manner as Fanurgc. He is under no
illusions as to the lady's attractions, and even admits her virtues
with caution. "The girl, I believe, as far as I can discover, is a
very industrious, sober woman, and seemingly endowed with
prudence and good- nature. ... As to her person, I know it is
plain (so is my own), but she is cleanly in her person and dress,
which is something more than at first sight it may appear to be,
towards happiness. She is, [ think, a well-made woman. As to her
education, I own it is not liberal, but she has good sense and a
desire to improve her mind, &c., &c."

This being almost the last entry \\\ the diary, one cannot help
suspecting that the charming Molly must have stumbled upon these
indiscreet outpourings in the early days of her married life, and have
expressed her disapproval of the practice of diaiy-making with a
vigour that ensured its final discontinuance.

They were married on June ig, 1765, and the event was briefly
recorded on July 3 following — the final entry in the diarj'.

" Thank God," he concludes, " I begin once more to be a little
settled and am happy in my choice. I have, it is true, not married
a learned lady, nor Is she a gay one ; but I trust she is good natured "
(he is still apparently uncertain on the point). " As to her fortune, I
shall one day have something considerable, and there seems to be
rather a flowing stream. Well, here let us drop the subject, and
begin a new one."

So we leave Thomas Turner in the full tide of the "flowing
stream " that bore him to his last harbour some hundred and twelve
years ago.

CHARUfS COOPER.

THE politiciil philosopher is apt to suffer from one of two
defects. He may be merely a student without actual ex-
perience of the working of those principles and passions which he
describes. He may be merely a polilician, prejudiced by the long
habit of taking sides and embittered by an acquired party spirit.
The more he is of the one, the less he is sure to be of the other ;
and he will rarely be like the ideal physician of Plato, who could
prescribe for mankind, because he had proved their diseases in his
own person. He will prescribe from a distant and uncertain know-
ledge^ or be will himself be so weakened and deformed by disease
as to liave lost the power to treat it properly.

This consideration, trite as it may appear, is necessary to explain
the life of Lord Bolingbroke. The world remembers him not only
as a great orator, whose speeches it is our loss not to have preserved;
or as the author of an epoch-making treaty with France; or as the
man who rode the Tory party to an unexampled fall ; or as the
disappointed {X)Iitician who pulled for many years the strings of an
active opposition to Walpole. It remembers him also as the man
who tried to construct a science of English pohtics ; as the writer
who inspired the great protest of the eighteenth century against the
system of parly government, though his own efforts in the world of
politics went perhaps to perpetuate that system ; as the man who
enunciated doctrines of policy that have become the heritage and
the ideal of parties; and, above all, as the philosopher whose
speculations profoundly aflectcd the whole course of eighteenth-
century thought. But Bolingbroke was a philosopher only by cir
cumstance, and a politician by nature. There were times — and
such limes will occur to the minds of all— when he pretended to
lire of the strife of parties, and to give himself to study in some
quiet and distant country retreat ; and perhaps he did so retire for
two short years of exclusion from power. But his eye was always
cast back to the tumultuous world, which he had perforce aban-
doned. He may have tried — he never managed — to be merely 8^

The Gentleman's Magasine.

student. He might paint his haU with rakes and spades, &5
eni1)lems nf the bucolic life which he intended to lead, or he might
write in an affected strain of the pleasures of retirement or the
consolations of exile ; but his mind was all the while on protocols
and Embassies and coalitions. He talked of horses, but he thought
of Cabinets, His studies were mere cloaks for plots and schemes.
They were the dark shade from which he winged envenomed shafts
against the men in power.

It is not the purpose of this essay to dwell minutely on
the early part of Bolingbroke's career, or, indeed, upon any
part of it, the facts being sufficiently well known and, indeed,
essential to the clear understanding of English history. The
glories of his descent he shared with a crowd of the illustrious
obscure ; the acts of his own life have given him a place
among the makers of modem England We would rather attempt
to disentangle from contradictory utterances and inconsistent
actions the ideas which guided a life so long engaged in politics.
Bolingbroke may, to use the words of Defoe -a man versed in
affairs and a wise critic of statesmen— have done all merely to serve
a turn ; but a mind like his could not but adorn the meanest
occasions of political life. His motives may have been low and
narrow ; his intellect gave them at least the colour of greatness and
wisdom, and he built on them a superstructure of brilliant, if not
aJways convincing, reflection.

The story goes that Bolingbroke was put into Parliament by his
family to wean him from an expensive and ruinous mistress. He
was at the lime plain Henry St. John ; and he entered an assembly
which had won power, but did not know how to use it, and which
was constantly swayed by the most surprising gusts of passion and
suspicion. The Revolution had placed England under the domi-
nation of Parliament ; it had placed Parliament under the heel of
party ; and parties were often filled with the most furious spirit of
faction. Of this spirit Bolingbroke's early actions are a sufficient
and instructive example. He was concerned in all llic insulting
measures by which the Tory party embittered the latter years of
King William. He opposed the Partition Treaties \ he opposed the
war with France ; he prayed for the removal of the Dutch guards ;
and he was popular with the country gentlemeri, who had come
to London full of hostility to the men of money and the men of
trade. From this care of the landed interest he swerved but little
through all the inconsistencies of his life. It was the fijundation ^i
that Tory system of which be wrote so much and said so much later.

The Potiiics of Bolingbroke^

Yet it was only by slow degrees, and to the alaxm of her wisest
men, that England fell into the party system ; and it is not surprising
to find that St John, Torj* as he was, attached himself to the man
who made one of the last futile efforts to rule England in defiance
of the new idea. He was an especial favourite of Marlborough;
and he became a member of that mixed Ministry in support of
which Marlborough hoped to unite all Englishmen till the
exorbitance of France should be destroyed. It was a vain attempt.
Marlborough himself forgot his first moderation^ and strove rather
to overwhelm than merely to enfeeble France ; parly divisions were
too wide and too representative of irreconcilable principles; and
statesmanship was obscured by the rage of politicians. Subtle
intrigues circled round the bemldcred Queen. Whig crossed Tory,
and Tory hinted the danger of the Church. The dark, silent^
solemn plotter, Robert Harley, won upon the fears of the Queen till
the Whigs by a lucky chance ejected him from the Ministry. With
him went St. John, weary of the war and seeming to abandon
politics for study in his pleasant retreat at Bucklcrsbury. But their
exile was not long. Harley still held the threads of his intrigue,
and stilt wove them round the Queen. His cause was strengthened
by popular weariness of the war, and in 171 1 he and St. John were
borne back to power on the flood tide of a Tory reaction which
the imagined wrongs of the Church had done much to raise.

There is no more melancholy story in the annals of English
history than the fate of this, the first Tory Ministry. It began with
•trength, union, and enthusiasm. It ended with weakness, bickering,
and fatal mistrust. It began with a well-defined and acceptable policy
of opposition to the war, hostility to Dissenters, and jealous respect
for the rights of the Church. It fell amid confused and sinister
designs, black rumours and suspicions, which no man has yet been
able to clear away. It was first enfeebled by the timid ascendency
of Harley. It was ridden to ruin by the headstrong leadership of
BoUogbroke.

No two men could be more unlike than those whom the fleeting
chances of politics and an ephemeral personal friendship had placed
together at the head of this Ministry. St. John was gracefuli
eloquent, and convincing, ready of address and captivating of
maimer, with a quick and fertile intellectf which saw life from many
standpoints, less original and profound of thought than gifted with a
ready power of assimilation and a wonderful richness of expression,
that endowed the meanest of his ideas with the appearance of great-
oess. Harle)- was slow, tedious, and hesitating, incohetcnl of %^^<^

VOL. CCXCI. »0. 304?. ^

Th^ Gentleman s Magazine,

and slovenly of address — a man whom no one could understand, and
who could not even explain clearly to himself the motives thai had
induced him to enier public life ; yet, by carerully concealing his
plans and uttering only vague generalities, he had raised great
expectations of himself in the hearts of his party ; and he had a
perfect knowledge of the secret arts by which men worm themselves
into authority. He was among the very first to see a new political
weapon of incalculable value in the power of the Press. Whether
it was from a dim-fcli conviction, or because he fondly wished to fence
in his own position on every bide, Harley now stood forth as the
purblind representative of a decaying idea. He frittered away the
strength of the Tory parly, while he strove to rally round his Ministry
the moderate men of all opinions ; and he set his underlii^, Defoe,
secretly to cajole to his support the moderate Whigs. On the other
hand St. John, whatever he became later, was then all for party, and
strove amid the plaudits of the country gentlemen to build up that
Torj- system which he Iiad outlined in the days of his opposition to
William III. Such divergencies of interest made a fatal breach upon
their friendship. St John, the younger man, who had at first
addressed Harley in the style of a disciple, calling him teacher and
master, began to stand forth as his rival, and was aided in this new
character by Harley's dilatory, perfunctory, and confused methods of
conducting business. When Harley was made an earl and St. John
only a viscount, this rivalry became a funous passion, breaking at
last into the weekly quarrels which even Swift was unable to compose.
It ended in the supersession of Harley by the readier and more
decided BoUngbroke.

Both the conduct of this Ministry and that of its opponents
displayed in fatal strength all the eviU of the party system. But let
lis leave the deadly spirit whicli induced the Whigs to abandon the
Dissenters that they might combine with the excluded Tories under
Nottingham ; and let us turn rather to the actions of the Ministry,
and particularly to the peace which it made with France, and to the
suspicions that have always hung around it of intriguing for the
return of the Stuarts. There is no need to swell the partisan
discussion tliat long raged round the Treaty of Utrecht. It seems
that peace was needed ; that Enghind had entangled herself with
greedy allies, who expected a generous reward for reluctant and tardy
efforts, and that she bad won as much from the war as she could
without overstraining her strength. But the peace was made by men
whose fortunes and perhaps whose lives depended on its »peedy
cotnplciion. It was made by men whose position at home wonld

Tk^ Politics of Bolingbroke.

be weakened by English success in the field, and who therefore
denuded the army of Marlborough that he might win no embarrsiss-
ing Tictory. It was so carelessly drawn as to leave the French with
a ready lever against the English in North America. The ncgotia-
tiODS were in the main the work of Bolingbroke, who alone of the
Ministry was qualified, both by his talents and by his knowledge of
the French language, to conduct them with confidence. They
languished in his absence % they were prejudiced by his indiscretions ;
they were only accomplished by his overmastering zeal In one point
alone be failed. He cou)d not persuade his countrymen to come
into closer commercial relations with France. Neither his eloquence
nor that of Defoe could overcome the time's belief that trade was
only a subtle kind of warfare, in which the good of one side was the ill
of the other. But he had put on record a principle which, except in
times of national depression, had been strange to English politics
since the days of Edward III., but which has now become an
accepted axiom of national conduct He had for a few years
removed England from active interference in the quarrels of Europe.
And this was the comer-stone of that Tory system for which he
had wrought the country gentlemen to leave the labyrinth of
Haile/s vacillations. That system pleased their prejudice, and
seemed to them founded upon an impregnable economic idea. Ever
since the Revolution they had been as dazed children wandering in
an unknown world. War had increased tlie expense of government
and bowed England beneath a growing burden of debt. It had
produced a cla^s of men who lived, not by their labour, but on the
interest of what they had lent to the nation ; and these idle drones,
scarce to be endured within the body politic, had pushed the
country gentlemen from their old precedence. As they battened on
war, so must England keep from war. As they mingled her with
ungenerous allies, so must she keep within her .sea4x>und isolation.
Moreover, the counlr)* tjentleraen had seen with noisy anger long
attacks upon the dignity of the Church. Their jealous minds con-
ceived that the toleration which the Dissenters had perforce
received at the Revolution now tlu-eatcned to become an intolerable
equality before the law ; and too many of their natural leaders, like
the landed families of Cavendish and Russell, liad overwhelmed
their opposition by siding with the easier and more latiludinarian
Whigs. It was to avenge all this, and indeed to overturn tlie whole
system of the Revolution, that they had come to the Parliament of
171?. They were strong at last in the fears which the country had
bc€Q moved to entertain for the Church ; and ihey (oWowed w\l\\ %.

3«

The Genikmafi s Magazine,

noisy joy the roan who put their holf-artLcuIate wishes into the form
of a party manifesto.

Thus the Tory system was an attempt to set back the clock. It
was an attempt to revive the days of the Stuarts without their
tyranny and their worst religious vagaries. It was an attempt of the
country squires to check the progress of society. It was one of
those attempts, of which history is full, to call back political power
to a class from which it was shpping away ; and it can be paralleled
from the history of any narion of which we have record, from the
struggle between the mountain and the plain at Athens, and between
the patricians and the plebs at Rome. How much there was in it
of mere unlovely prejudice, and how much of that reverence for the
past which some may call " rock- bound antiquarianism " and some a
"well-found instinct of beauty," which fired later the English protest
against the French Revolution, it would be hard now to determine.
The beauty of every cause is hidden from the multitude, who cry its
watchwords and range themselves beneath its banner ; and it is hard
10 see anything amiable in the shouting crowd of Squire Westerns,
who followed at the call of Bolingbroke, and who were better judges
of ale than of English politics. For Bolingbroke himself, he was
without a doubt that product of the strife of parties, the opportunist
leader, who will echo the passions of men for party or personal gain.
His written addresses (we cannot now judge of his speeches) always
ring to me with a cold note of insincerity ; but yet it would be rash
to say that he did not fight for principles that sprang in him from
aristocracy of birth and from a refinement of disposition, that shrank
from the social upheaval of the Revolution, so destructive of what
was time-honoured and revered, and that despised the bnuen crowd
of new succcssfiil men it had so soon produced. That refinement
of disposition showed itself in an easy polish and a perfect grace of
speech and writing. That pride of birth saved his dignity in a life
of sensual excess.

Such a spirit might accept the Revolution as an end of tyranny,
but could hardly welcome it as the beginning of a new age. It
might accommodate itself to new modes, yet try to restrain what it
thought to be their excess ; and it might keep this aim in inew
through all the tortuous windings of a Ministerial career. Tliis is the
best that can be said for BoUngbroke. The common cry of the
lime was that he meant to crown his work by restoring the Stuart
kings, and after his fall this cry was repeated with the wildest
clamours by the triumphant Whigs, and indeed by all the adherents
of the House of Hanover. If he meant so, neither he nor his party

The Politics of Bolingbroke.

•

won any or that mournful gbmour which is, in remembrance at
least, a compensation to the devotees of lost causes— that glamour
which was shed by Keats on the imagined gods of an elder faith.
The Tory gentlemen were slow to imperil their lives, and Boting-
broke was never suspected of too much sincerity, and only the loftiest
devotion can redeem the disgrace of failure. But while the Tory
party wished for a king of English race, Bolingbroke might perhaps
think of the Stuarts as men whose folly had brought England to her
present pass, even though, since the \\l»igs choked up every avenue
to the favour of Hanover, he feared for his country as well as for him-
self the accession of a partisan king of that dynasty. But, whatever
his designs, they were cut short by the unexpected death of the Queen.
The accident of a few days lost stayed the course of English histor)'.
The work of the Revolution went on to completion under the a^s
of the WTiigs, while the whole Tory party stank under the twin names
of "traitor" and "Jacobite." Bolingbroke himself was lost to thescr-
rice of his country. He was thirty-six years old ; but though he Uved
for forty more, his influence on English politics was always strange,
secret, and illegitimate. It was as if a Prospero, full of spite,
should raise a storm and confound his enemies, yet fail to regain
bis lost dignities.

In the first heat of the Whig triumph Bolingbroke fled to France,
and entered openly into the service of the Pretender. That mis-
guided Prince, with ordinary prudence, might already have been in
the seat of George I. ; and even yet, in the hour of political defeat,
it was not impossible that Bolingbroke might do something for him.
The Tories in England bad been surprised, but not cowed ; thdr
plans had been frustrated only by the accidents of time and by the
disagreements of their leaders ; and they were more than ever
inclined (o the Pretender, now that the Revolution had become
a party triumph for the Whigs. But the Pretender «ras the meanest
man for whom enthusiast ever laid down life or fortune. Loyalty
to him could never be loyalty to his person and character. It was
loyalty to his misfortunes as the fate of well-loved principles \ it was
loyalty to that feudal idea of indefeasible royalty which passed away
with the Cavaliers in whom it lived, and which must be held the
more admirable in proportion to the folly of those whom it served.
It was a loyalty which burned with a purer flame thirty years later,
when the gross resentments of party defeat no longer fed the
Stuart cause, and when it had become a whole-souled devotion to
ftn antique idea. But, if Bolingbroke may be bcUevcdi no such
loyaJty circled round the Pretender at St. Gcrxnams. \t\sVv \n\cA»^

-uLuiuLuuenL lo uie Aumon v^atnuH
what Holingbroke could not understand. If nil
it had already stood in the way of Holingbrokl
and so it stood now in the way of his restoratil
with this ill-timed consistency in his mind thati
so often to the politic pliancy of Queen Elil
Navarre. Moreover, the wretched crowd of col
curious antipathy to his presence among the!
enough to discredit him with James. His coJ
his motives suspected, the rising of 1715 toq
approval, and he on his side lashed with impatid
courtiers and James himseIC At last he was]
offices — an intended mark of ignominy which n
unbeatable position, since no sentiment was strc
in his mind before practical realities, and he had
the Jacobite cause from the moment when I
steadfast friend by the death of I^ouis XIV,,
sentative of irresponsible royalty that Europe !
had borne too many rebuffs from I/)uis* A
Private pique had brought him to this scnric
pique away from it in the manner of his disniissa
with him, he built on this private pique a general
He would make clear to the misled Tory pa

nrvtxihititv nf Tin iilillii m ^^^^^^^^^Mi

The Politics of Bolingbrokc.

his real discontent with vague reflections on the pleasures of exile.
" A wise man," he would write one day, " looks on himself as a
citizen of the world ; and when you ask him where his country lies
paints, like Anaxagoras, with his finger to the heavcn.i." The next
day he would ask a friend to intercede for him with the English
GovemraenL During this time he made a lucky speculation in
Mississippi shares. Indeed, he asserted that, had he wished, he
could have made a lai^e fortune ; but he thought it unworthy of a
gentleman to turn broker. AVhen at length he was allowed to
return to England he came, as it were, to a strange country. Not
only was the Tory party almost non-existent, but the ferments of
t7ii bad subsided into a sort of slow indifference, in which the
people lived careless of their rulers, while one jealous Minister
monopolised authority and excluded from tlie councils of the nation
all wliose ability might have enabled them to act with independence.
A jealousy of able colleagues is indeed a common fault with Ministers,
Walpolc shored it with men as unlike himself as Henry III. and
ge in. It was thererore hardly strange that he should keep an
B.Uy wary eye on Bolingbroke, allowing him to live, to bequeath,
'~liid to inherit, but not allowing him to exercise any political
fights.

To live in England— that was the utmost grace Bolingbroke could
obtain from the Whig Government of Walpole. Political vengeance
had brought his fate near that of a man who had done more for the
Revolution than some whose names are writ larger in history.
Daniel Defoe only continued in politics after 17 15 as a spy of the
Whigs on Tory journals, and in 1725 Bolingbroke only indirectly
ade his way back to politics. Still half-proscribed, he kept up at

tersea or Dawley the style of a leisured gentleman whose friends
were men of letters like Pope or Swift, and whose recreations were
in books of philosophic study. He was all that and more. He had
found a more deadly weapon of political warfare llian that oratory
which had once inflamed the hearts of country squires, and a wider
audience than that which he would have addressed in the House
of Lords. His audience was now the nation, and his speeches
were not delivered, but printed and published under convenient
pseudonyms.

From one point of view Bolingbroke*s object was purely personal,
yet different from that which he had brought back from France. It
WM mad vengeance upon the statesman who hod condemned him to
political death. It was to raise those first muttcrings of discontent
which he had heard on his return to EngUind into a sVotm xVa\s\^o\k\^

The Gentleman s Magazine,

sweep away Walpole and his obstructive Ministry. It was to change
public indifference to public passion; to unite not only the poor
remains of the Tory party, now in captivity through Bolingbroke's
own mistakes, but also those Whigs whose native love of office
Walpole had disregarded j to join in one campaign men so dis-
similar as the florid Paltcney, the melancholy Wyndham, and the
exquisite Chesterfield— ^and all that Bolingbroke might sit again in
the House of Lords. The means were worthy of such a cause.
They were the worst devices with which a partisan Press long sinoe
loaded constitutional government; not merely general charges of
corruption, bribery, tyranny, illegality, and the like — in which there
might be some truth, but in whose very vagueness lay the impossi-
bility of their refutation — but the smallest acts of the Minister
reviled and distorted as they could be only by a mind of the highest
powers which lent itself to so malignant a purpose. Bolingbroke
came amid difficult negotiations with a cry that Walpole did not
know his mind. He charged him first with wishing to restore
Gibraltar to Spain, and then with violating a promise to ^c* so. He
declared that the folly of the Ministry had sent all our friends to the
side of our enemies. " All other Powers softened towards each other
by degrees ; and by degrees we got deeper into the quarrel. Spain,
from having no ally, came to have many ; some more, some less to
be depended on ; none to be feared. From living a multitude of
disputes, she came to have none, except with us. We, on the other
hand, from having none of our interests in dispute, are come to see
hardly any others in controversy. From feeling ourselves backed by
several allies we are come — at least, in the point of direct relation to
us— to have but one ; and with that, we own, we arc dissati.sfied ; nay,
we own that we are afraid of him." The difficult years from 1727 to
1730 gave him an opportunity of which his minute knowledge of
foreign affairs enabled him to take solid advantage. But he used
best Walpole's excise scheme, opposing it on the puerile ground
that an Engli-sh man's house was his castle ; and yet in his own time of
power Bolingbroke had held the most enlightened views on trade-
One day it was a vision of the Minister Irampling upon the British
Constitution ; then a picture of a corrupt and indifferent rution, over
which foolish fraud might reign supreme ; but always flouts and jeers
and insinuations, which were none the less vile because they were
fmely said, and none the less untrue because they brought examples
from Greece and Rome. Such work in another age would have
placed Bolingbroke in the front rank of mischievous demagogues,
and the failure of its personal object was a meet reward. Id 1735

ihtl^

«d

*fitMB

bM Botogbiiifce^
m the rtaiii Tbt
iCBl otK to rssnoc*

- voct vitfkoat lua.

a fnvilB gntqfc

*^''y pcBK cssoe* is a s&yniS

the g^iii|w^i^i.ii of }aa»ory^ «bo teU bow thb

cfiipor ibat coortiei^ beastf setSed the Arte of n&tiain.

t gnatdmiee ever hippmrH— itmigfat be retarded or aocelented

I so tnvitl a vsy. To think 90 is to set the vhims of miting*

aboTC the mardi of pnnci|>ks. It is jks ir one sbonU

I a Wfaitsiia firast voisld IdU ifae ciascent summer. Few public

I bot are the sUves of causes which ihcy do not know. The

giinds aU the pebbles od the bexh, and one or other idea

orer every onxt of the human mass. Of those who hav«

ite reseotmcDls, the commoner characters in history are those

rho make them go hand-Ln-hand with public principles. At least,

I so with Bolingbroke. George I. might not understand his

, and might think a mere gush of words the eloquence in wluch

• welled from him. " He talked only bagatelles,'* said George lo

de: And e^'eryone must feel that Bolingbroke was at limes only

; and playing. His conceptions arc of^cn cold, bis cloi]ucaco

hollow, his arguments ephemeral ; and he seems in no more earnest

ihin a Cavalier making by-pby with his handkerchief. '* Those who

live to see such happy da>*s,'* he said at the end of " The Patriot

I King," "and to act in so glorious a scene, will perhaps call to mind

^ with some tenderness of sentiment, when he is no more, a man who

contributed his mite to carry on so good a work, and who desired

life for nothing so much as to sec a king of Great Britain the moit

popular man in bis country and a Patriot King at the head of an

united people." Is not this like a man laying his hand upon his heart

. and calling hts gods to witness? But there was reason in Bolingbroka'i

^arguments, and much in the state of England to give ihcm force.

It was not good that constitutional government should have turned

into petty squabbles between bands of oRice-tiecking Whigti. It was

not right tiiat a great party should, in Bolingbroko's oft-quoted phrase,

have become " hewers of wood and drawers of water " to their

opponents. It was worse, too, to sec abroad a finrit of corruption

which was slaying all sound political life ; and it woa, as Bolingbroke

bdedared, a decaying nation from which there came no TcmeJl'), *VWl

ITalpole

The Gentleman s Magazine,

remedy he himself supplied. He woke the nation from political
sleep.

Bolingbroke's chief cry was against the spirit of faction —
by which he meant not the wild clamour of 1711, which
would have too near an application, but the government of the
country in the interests of a party, which, he said, was only
possible when corruption had eaten away its strength. " A wise and
brave people," he said, " will neither be cozened nor bullied out
of its liberty ; but a wise and brave people may cease to be such ;
they may degenerate; they may sink into sloth and luxury; they
may resign themselves to a treacherous conduct, or abet the enemies
of the Constitution under a notion of supporting the friends of the
Government" Nineteenth-century criticism would present rather
details and points of corruption, but that of the eighteenth loved
to clothe itself in the abstract concepts of morality ; and it was the
habit of Bolingbroke to insinuate the particular by means of the
general, or to present it as a sly, allusive picture of bygone events.
He found faction in every troubled reign of English history ; curbed
by Elizabeth ; rampant under James I., " who seemed to expect the
love and to demand the obedience of his subjects simply because
the crown had dropt upon his head " ; incarnate in Buckingham, a
sole Minister who betrayed his master (his character was an oblique
reflection of Walpole) ; and then for a happy time beaten down by
the Revolution, when Whig and Tory sacrificed (heir party to their
country. But the Revolution had been pushed loo far; it retained
too much of the spint of former animosities ; it left one party too
eager and the other too sullen ; it made no safeguard against the
corruption of Parliament ; and its chief result had been to increase
the ability of the Crown to govern by that dishonourable expedient.
" No instrument of tyranny," said Bolingbroke, "can be found so
sure and effectual as an assembly of the estates of the realm, when
such an assembly is so consliluted as to want the power, as was from
the first the case of the three estates of France ; and the same roust
happen when they are so constituted as to want the will, as became
at last the case of the Cortes of Spain^ to secure the libertj' and to
defend the property of the people against such kings as Philippe le Bel
and such coadjutors as Marigny." (Philippe le Bel and Enguerrand
de Marigny were brought from history pale prototypes of George and
Walpole.)

Thus Bolingbroke declared it his aim to call back England to the
true principles of the Revolution. He spoke as one who believed
that old party distinctions had then been destroyed. None but a

The Politics of Bolingbroke.

few pmgmatical Tories maintained the doctrines of prerogative or
worshipped at the shrine of Charles the Martyr. None but a few
abandoned Whigs agreed with every excess of the new dynasty.
Parties there were, and parties there must be ; but tiie panics of
1733 were composed of those who loved their country and those who
sought their interest ; those who fought against the corruption which
was shackling the free Constitution of England, and those creatures
of a profligate Minister who defende<I corruption as the oil that eased
the wheels of government. They were, in fact, the old Court
and country parties over again ; but now on a wider field and for a
higher issue— no less than to beat down faction, to exorcise corrup-
tion, and to restore the work of the Revolution, which had been
trampled down in factious strife. It might not be sound history ;
but it was a plausible and orderly argument, which went further than
the Tory scheme of ijii only because it presented principles,
whereas the other presented only means.

That argument became a declamation against the whole system
of party government, not for the subtler defects which modern
minds have found in its workings \ as that it favours public licence
and instability, political charlatanism, and demagogic tub-thumping ;
that it is blind, noisy, partial, and unreasonable ; or that it permits the
progressof society only by transverse undulations ; but because it broke
Uie Constitution and must by nature become the rule of faction.
"Party," said Bolingbroke, "is a political evil, and faction is the
worst of parties." He thought that the best form of government was
monarchy — fetching his reasons not from the needs of mankind, but
from fancied first principles. Monarchy, he held, was a pale reflec-
tion of divinity. Kings were to nations what God was to the
universe. "God," he said, " is a monarch— not arbitrar>', but Hmited —
limited by the rules which infinite wisdom prescribes to infinite
power." So kings were limited by the duty of governing well, and
by whatever fences society had built against the chance of tyranny ;
but there was nothing — in the English Constitution, at least — which
could lawfully make monarchy the vacuiz sedes et tnania arcana of
authority. Bolingbrokc's gaze leapt over many troublous reigns of
English history, in which the evil policy of kings bred parties and
parties bred factions, till it rested on Queen Elizabeth, the national
ruler and arbitress between a multitude of warring sects ; and then it
turned to the days when faction should be overcome, corruption
banished, and an united people guided by a Patriot King —
that incarnation of all the virtues which Bolingbroke failed to find in
George and VValpole. The features of this character arc well known,

The Gentkmans Magazine.

and there is no need to draw them here at length. The Patriot
King would begin to govern as soon as he began to reign. He
would seek the good of his subjects— not, like the Prince of Machia-
velli, from motives of self-interest, but from a true regard for their
welfare. He would espouse no party, but govern like the common
father of his people. He would banish from his Court all those who
had pushed themselves into the Administration by the arts of faction
and corruption ; but, unlike the Hanoverians^ he would sacrifice his
victims, not to party fury, but to national justice ; and he would call
to his councils only such men as were willing to sen'e on the
principles on which he intended to govern. Above all, he would
not neglect that outward duty of dignity and decorum for the
lack of which many kings lost the admiration of their subjects.
*' What, in truth/* said Bolingbroke, "can be so lovely, what
so venerable as to contemplate a king on whom the eyes of a
whole people arc fixed, filled with admiration and glowing with
affection?" The Patriot King was thus a Homeric figure, a
true paler patria^ a kindly aristocrat of the eighteenth century,
dispensing bounty and reproof to a submissive people — the antithesis
of that hero-king, the man of demoniac energy, whom Carlyle
pictured as appearing once in a while to dragoon mankind into the
paths of progress. But then Bolingbroke wrote before the French
Revolution.

It is idle to dismiss the Patriot King as a mere piece of rhetoric.
The occasion no doubt was low, and the result in keeping. Frederic,
Prince ofWales, was too poor a thing to act the part, and George III.
turned its teachings into folly; but it had a better, if a some-
what self-seeking and fitful, exemplar on the Continent in the Emperor
Joseph n. It was an eighteenth-century picture of popular despotism,
vague and unfinished of outline, darkly coloured with the party hue,
and overcrowded Viith vain figures of universal goodness and phil-
anthropy ; and it took too little account of human nature. But it
painted a political ideal which was at least as noble as the one it
would displace, which was by no means impossible, and which later
practitioners, such as the French of the Second Empire, have
tried, however vainly, to realise— an ideal which rose before the
English in their late humiliations. But the party taint maimed
its worth. So far from killing party, it blew the party fire to a
keener flame. It drove one party from a long monopoly, and
after an inglorious trial of its principles, in which faction and
corruption stalked abroad with all their former strength, it installed
another party in an oppressive supremacy which the terrors of the

The Politics of BoHngbroke.

French Revolution helped to maintain. That BoUngbrokc did so,
thai he restored the Tor)' party lo what the critics call its true position
in the balance of the cbecks of our Constitution, is held by many to
be his chief title to praise ; and we find him set up as a pattern to
a certain modern English statesman.

It is said that when Bolingbroke's second wifedied— she who was
the niece of Madame dc Maintcnon — he threw himself upon the
bed where she lay, and sobbed as if his heart would break. He was
then an old man. " He simulated grief very well," said Horace
Walpole. This phrase, though from one who had been hard hit by
Bolingbroke, tells us in part the cause of his personal failure.
Nobody thought hira sincere. His pretence of living as a careless
country squire at Dawley had long been inefleclual ; and, as we have
seen, the men for whom he wrote speeches, and whose scattered
resentments he had joined in one fierce plan against \Valpole, wished
him out of the way because his ill-repute baulked their revenge and
added strength to the Minister.

Now, we have already hinted the curious union in Boling-
broke of private grudges with public principles, and we must
allow tumultuous spite so far supreme in him as to have dis-
arranged and confused the body of bis ideas. It would be
absurd to expect from a politician the clear-cut consistency of a
philosopher. One looks rather for a jagged edge of thought, and
behind that a shifting obscurity. But there is so much chaotic and
incoherent and momentary in BoUngbrokc that one wonders how
much he assumed to deck each occasion as it rose, and how much
was the bed-rock of his opposition to Walpole and of his dislike of
party government. In a man who wrote largely of philosophy one
would look also for an attempt to ground political doctrines on ultimate
principles ; but, except in the case of monarchy mentioned above,
where the argument is false and fanciful, there is little of the kind
in Bolingbroke. He wrote an essay on patriotism. It began by
pnusing ihosi: who serve their country ; it ended by denouncing
Walpole. It made no attempt to define patriotism, and conveyed
little poUtical doctrine, except the implication tliat patriotism is a
operty of the wealthy and well-born. Again, the ideas of the Tory
erne never altogether left BoUngbrokc. He employed against
Walpole the cries against national debts and standing armies which
ad been current in the days of Queen Anne, but which sounded
ngcly and faintly beside the Whiggish clamours which he uttered
through the mouths of Pulteney and Wyndham. There was, it is
trae, a dear note of warning in his cry against natioiud debts^ wUvch,

The Gentleman s Alagazine.

it would not have harmed our forefathers to remember. That a
nation with a debt is better than a nation which lias none, as some of
our theorists have maintained, is one of those mysterious dogmas
which the unassisted understanding cannot penetrate. But there
was far more ultimate effect in Bolingbroke's unfashionable pronounce-
ment of a true national policy. To decrease the number of soldiers
and increase the number of sailors, to let the European Powers fight
out their own quarrels and only to engage ourselves when interest
imperatively demands, is a doctrine plain enough to us, but disregarded
by the generation which haggled over Parma and Piacenza, and
permitted the barter of Tuscany for Lorraine. It was Bolingbroke's
merit to state thai doctrine clearly and leave it to the new Tory party
as a watchword, which they kept in Opposition and forgot when they
came to office. But ihe wonder Is how he turned this doctrine, like
everything else, into a weapon against Walpole. You may, if you
like, regard Eolingbroke as a political martyr. He was no martyr to
principtc. He was rather a Samson who confounded his enemies
in his captivity.

Let mc insist here on Bolingbroke's conception of history. To
do so ts to make no great digression from the subject of this essay, for
Bolingbroke always fortified his political arguments by reference to
the past, tangling indeed the whole thread of English history into a
tissue of warnings against Walpole. He did not, like Burke, con-
cave clearly of society as an organism which can only be understood
by patient knowledge of its growth ; nor was he one of those, like
Shelley, who deride the study of history. He saw several wa>'s in
which it might be useless to mankind. Some men turned to it as
to a game ; some that they might " shine in conversation " ; others
" made fair copies of foul manuscripts, explained hard words, and
made learning easier for the mass " ; others invented systems of
chronology ; but all that was useless if it did not make a man a
betiei citizen. True history was, he thought, the best means of
education. It was philosophy teaching by example, and conquering
the passions as well as the reasons of men. It was full of warnings
both for States and individuals, which, if they were not pushed too
far in particular cases^ were always safe and sufficient rules. It pre-
pared a man for public Ufc, and no man was fit to serve his country
who did not know minutely such treaties and compacts as those of
Westphalia and the Pyrenees, which have from time to time settled
the face of Europe, and who could not tell exactly how ever)- one
of llie great monarchies had been built up and maintained. There-
fore he thought it mere pedantry to linger over the beginnings of a

The PoliiUs of Bolingbroke.

nation, or indeed over the events of any century up to the fifteenth.
"Down to this era," he said, 'Met us read history; from this point
let us study it." Now this is a fairly commonplace view, and it has
on its own ground limitations obvious enough to those who know
that the fifteenth or sixteenth century did not make a complete
breach in the progress of Europe. Bolingbroke conceived of
history as a study for the rich and wellborn, who might expect to
hold public offices. He did not think of it quite as past politics,
but as affording a content to that principle of his which was cast
into veise by Pope: " The proper study of mankind is man." He
looked to it for moral examples, warnings of decay, principles of
wisdom, and guides of policy. He thought that only the best
philosophy which had an ethical interest. He had none of the
modern subtlety which wonders whether history merely refines the
imagination of those that study it, or whether it enables them to
re-create for the understanding of others the life of bygone ages. He
was fax from that spirit which loves to wander wonderingly among
venerable cathedrals or beautiful ruins. The tomb of Cestius or the
Colosseum would have raised in him no feelings of reverence or
sympathy. If they appealed to him at alt, they would only have
fiiniished him with new invectives against George and Walpole.

In religion Bolingbroke had few convictions and no enthusiasms.
As an aristocrat he despised Dissenters, and, if we may believe the
story, thought with horror of the days when he had been made to read
ftll the discourses which the Reverend Daniel Burgess had composed
upon each verse of the one hundred and nineteenth Psalm. He
was perhaps attracted by the dignity and the grace of the service of
the Church. As a politician he was content to be her faithful
servant, and it was one of the taunts of her opponents that her
interests were defended by a man so loose of life and principles.
He was not an atheist. His attacks upon the Mosaic chronology
and the authenticity of ecclesiastical history would shock our age
less than they did his own. He declared himself ready to accept
iny theory which would reconcile or account for those parts of the
Bible which, as he said, were incredible to human reason. He
believed that atheists and priests had joined together to delude roan-
kind. Men of his own generation thought him monstrous and
unclean. Rumour said that he died with curses on hia lips. His
lack of religion, or his opposition to Christianity — call it which you
will — it would be presumption here to praise or to condemn. But
he judged rather the institutions of religion than religion itself, and
there saw only the crudities with which men have so often overlaid

SOME VULGAR ERRORS.

A VULGAR error means merely a widespread error, such as <f?en
the most refined may easily shaic, and do sometimes share,
maybe yielding a little to their taste, in spite of their better Itnow-
The belief that the swan sings herself to death is one of
se widespread errors which poets and their next of intellectual
kin are loth to forego — nay, do their best to keep alive. Tennyson,
^for instance, speaks of the death-song of the swan. So, too, does
Phincas Fletcher, who, in the days of Charles I., penned an allego-
I poem called *' The Purple Island," wherein he sings :

The beech »halt yield a cool safe canD|>7

WTiile down I sit »nd chant to ibc echoing wood.

Ah \ singing might 1 live, aod ungtog die 1

Su by (ail Thames ox silver McOnrajr's flood.

The dyiog swan, when yean hei temi^es pierce.

In roBBC-slnuns breathes out her life and Terse ;

And, singing her own dir^e, dies on her watery hearse.

But truly the difficulty Is to name a poet who docs not, so to
'speak, sing this self-same song. You may find it in Byron, Camp-
bell, Wordsworth, Pope, Dryden, Thonison, Milton, Shake^}eare,
Speniier, and Horace ; and I know of only one writer who takes the
trouble to tell us that this is all moonshine ; and that writer's name is
Pliny, who in plain prose says that he bad seen swans die, but never
beard them sing.

It occurs to me that I never did see a swan dying ; bat a few

months ago I did see a swan dead, floating " on her watery hearse."

With the poels, however, swans not only sing themselves to

death, but are in life whitur than snow. In the winter of 1890-91 I

trudged three miles through the snow on purpose to test the truth of

[this poetic view ; and I saw three swans looking quite dingy as they

Kswaro up a narrow stream, with a snow-clad bank for background.

Another poptiUr, or poetical, error is the belief that little bears
are bom shapeless, and then licked into shape by tlieir dam.
Samuel Butler countenances this error in his "Hudibras"^ and
^lienoc the ourenl phrase, "an unlicked cub," descriptive q{ qv\^
vou ccxci. no. 80«7, X

The Genilemans Magazine.

whose mother could not or did not teach him how to behave himself.
I fear that this error may be traced to the great Aristotle ; but an
eminent Italian naturalist took the trouble to watch a she-bear in
labour, and found — as might have been expected^that little bears
are no more shapeless at their birth than little babies.

We smile when told that the father of the eminent Wesleyan
minister, Dr. Adam Clark, used to till his North of Ireland farm on
strictly Virgilian principles j using the " Georgics " as a sort of agri-
cultural Bible. But 'tis far more astonishing to learn^ as we do from
the history of silk-weaving, that for long years the French silkworm
breeder who chanced lo lose his silkworms would resort to
the same recipe for getting a fresh brood as that adopted by
Aristxus, at the bidding of his mother Cyrene, for the renewing of
his stock of bees. The recipe was to bury a calf in the ground,
and dig it up after a certain number of days ; when the carcase
would be found swarming with bees. And Arista:us, in the fourth
Georgic, did so find it. But that in the real life of this work-a-day
world a calfs carcase should spontaneously breed a swarm of silk-
worms transcends belief. And yet French silk-breeders did really
believe this ; unless Dr. Lardncr's " Cyclopaedia " be a most untrust-
worthy guide.

The popular belJerthat Pontius Pilate drowned himself in a tarn
on the top of Mount Pilate, near Lucerne, is still, 1 believe, as
vigorous as ever. But, as Dr. Trench long since explained, Mount
Pilate is but a modern form of Mons Pileatus, the capped or hatted
hill; because this hill often wears a cap of clouds like our own
Skiddaw, as nins the old north country rhyme :

When Skiddaw dons his hat,
Men of the \-alc bewnre or iti&t.

But the meaning of pileatus being lost in Pilate, and the name of
Pontius Pilate found there, up sprang the legend which the guide
still gravely repeats, and wliich finds easy credence ; as it naturally
falls in with our human sympathies.

I do not know whether anylwdy still believes that Mahomet's
coffin continues to hang poised in midair at Mecca; but Samuel
Butler made it so hang, spite of the additional objection that
Mahomet lies buried at Medina. So that there is here exactly what
the elder Mr. Welter would have craved for, a triumphant alibi.

The vulgar error that the nightingale sings only by night— an
error backed by Shakespeare— still holds its ground, although any-
one who will take the trouble may easily conirince himself that the
nightingale sings all day long. We may note in passing that even

Tome Vuigar Errors.

Tennyson, by terming the nightingale's song " the music of the
moon," sccras to countenance the prevalent belief.

A widespread error is that of im;igining that American humour —
which consists mainly in gross exaggeration — is a nev birth of
Time. On the contrary, this sort of fun prevaDed in the days of
Quintilian, who lived some eighteen hundred years ago, and who
gives some excellent examples of the art of killing a big lie with
a bigger. But I think the best or at least the wickedest of his
stones is that which tells of a man whose wife hung herself on a tree
in his garden, and who was forthwith besieged by his mArried neigh>
hours, begging him for a cutting of that tree.

*Tis also a vulgar error to believe — as the French once did — that
DO German can be witty. In a German playhouse^ where it was
forbidden by Government to introduce any "gag." a German actor
entered the scene on horseback, and his horse thought fit to relieve
the wants of nature. " Now then, you beast," cried the horseman,
" d' you want to get me into trouble ! That's not in the book."

Another still more widespread error is the belief that all Germans
are sages and thinkers ; the truth being that the Fatherland has
somewhat more than her fair share of dutts and dunces ; so that we
English-Scotch- Welsh- Irish could easily distance her "all along the
Un^" did we but give ourselves fair play.

Tis easy to lengthen our list of widespread errors. Tis a wide-
spread and a deadly error to believe that whatever is new must needs
therefore be best. This is untrue of servants, friends, wine, fiddles,
fiutes, of many a book, of some pairs of boots, of cheese, of words
and phrases, of physicians, of lawyers, of clay pipes, of most music,
of the majority of pictures, all which things — like moons and trees —
are all the better for being ripe. I shall not here attempt to prove
my proposition. Indeed, in many, if not in all, of the cases named
there needs no proof ; res ipsa loquitur ; but I will beg leave to put
in a special plea in favour of old words and phrases as opposed to
new. And first of the last, as Aristotle might say. I was lately
reminded of a couplet of Dean Swift's, which runs ;

Making tmc the ssying f>dd,

Keu tbe church and fiu from God \

by-thc-by, has been turned against the Templars of to-day.
: here Dean Swift was not inventing ; he was merely refurbishing
a fragment of Spenser's "Shepherd's Calendar":

To kirk the nurc, from God loorc Cu,
Has be«D an old laid nw.

The Gentiematis Magazine,

Ay, "old said," not "odd." So that Swift, instead of bettering the
old saw, may be said to have taken the edge off it.

And now a plea for the good old homely word " nosegay," which
still lives upon the lips of (p-ey-haired hinds, though " bouquet " has
banished it from the lips and pens of the upper ten — how many?
Well, the word "bouquet " is useful when one wants to spealc of the
perfume of good wine; and for that purpose let us keep it, but ro-ive
the picture-word " nosegay," which, besides being pure English, says
as plainly as words can say: *'Lo! I present you the image of
something at once bright to the eye and fragrant to the nose. What
better word could you have?"

Meanwhile " bouquet," though bad enough as a makeshift for
"nosegay," is a hundred times better than " buttonhole," which now
threatens to juslle it out of life, as itself hasjustled "nosegay." Yes,
but a few weeks ago a country lass proudly showed me a nosegay as
big as a mop, and asked me to admire her " beautiful buttonhole."
Now, though to call even a single flower a buttonhole is a violent
figure of speech, no one but a pedantic prig would seriously object
to the figure ; but to apply it to a big bunch of sunflowers and poppies
is a violation of good sense that screams for protest.

Another plea for another homely English phrase of old descent.
Reading Gilbert While's " Natural History of Selborne" I stumble on
the charmingly simple phrase: "Nanny has been ailing, but she is
mending fast." Then I turn to my Times and light on this
absurdity : " The Duke of Sutherland is now quite convalescent."
Quite convalescent ! that is " completely mending." Why, the adverb
and the adjective swear at one another like cat and dog. *' Well,
but you who blame the Times used that selfsame phrase yourself
only forty years ago." Yes, and my poor mother laughed rae to
scorn for it ; Heaven bless her !

It seems hardly necessary to add that no one in his senses sup-
poses the editor of the 7)Wj himself capable of uttering so gross
an absurdity. Even the clerks in the Times counting-house know
belter ; but these *' atrocities " creep in, and, in the hurry of " going
to press," escape even the most vigilant editor's eye.

Another popular error is the notion that " education " and " book-
learning " are synonymous words. This error is embalmed in the old
saying, that "a good boy minds his book." But, in truth, book
learning is but a part of education, and by no means the most
important part; as many an excellently well-read man feels to his
cost every hour of the day. It is, however, gratifying to be able to
tdd that — thanks in great part to the teaching contained in Mr.

Some Vulgar Errors.

Herbert Spencer's tittle book on " Education "—folks arc now be*
ginning co took oil mere book-kaming with suspicious eyes. There
is nov perhaps some danger or our running into the opposite extreme ;
at least so &r as the upper classes are concerne<l

1 now descend from this high ilight to plead for the revival of
another old word — " needments " — which seems to me far better —
as 'lis surely shoner — than its modem substitute, " necessaries." Why
not *- needments oflife" instead of " necessaries oflife," which is now
the standing Ulcrary and legal phrase ? See the leading case of Seatim
V. Btntdict; where, bythe-by, Benedict — the married man — is a
feigned name for a certain special pleader cither at or ttnder the Bar
whose wife thought fit to run him into debt ^^200 for silk stockings
some ninety years ago ; and the question for the judge — or jury —
was whether so many pairs of silk stockings could be deemed
necessaries of life for a person in her position. The reader will judge
for himself on that point. Meanwhile 1 humbly submit that *' neces-
ies " is a needlessly long and hissing word, which miglit well make
y for Spenser's " needments." I lay stress on the hissing of the
word because foreigners are wont to call English the hissing tongue ;
and it behoves every Englishman who loves it to do his *' level best "
to better it Great writers do this unconsciously. Little ones must
do what they can.

One gigantic popular error is to suppose, or rather to take for
granted, that *tJs every wight's duty to ape the dress, or the manner,
or the mode of living, or the style of writing or speaking of some
other wight. This Js a deadly error, for it leads straight to affectation,
which never fails to beget disgust the moment it is detected \ and
detection dogs its heels. *' For who," as Tennyson asks, " can
always act?" — i.e, play a part No one. The mask is sure to fall
ofl* sooner or later; and there stands the hypocrite self-exposed, as a
hypocrite In the pristine sense of the word, vTct^iin/t, an actor,
though not an honourable actor \ a stage-player on the stage of real
life. Thus, as Schopenhauer pointedly puts it, every man, instead of
being boimd to ape others, is bound to be original to tlie best of his
ability, within the limits permitted by the law and by the dictates of
morality. These will hinder him from carrying his own originality
so far as to meddle with the equal right of his neighbour.

" And what of religion ? You speak of the restraints imposed by
law and by morality, but you say nothing of religion." I imagine
Ihe reader to raise an objection which has arisen in my own mind.
But, on reflection, I find myself justified in keeping religion apart
&om morality, because oxit most prevailing po^\ai crtoi \& NA

The Gentleman's Magazine.

confound them as if they were one and the same. jVnd this is natural,'
for tbc)' both have their root in the heart. Both arc feelings. Only
they are not the same feeling. Religion is a feeling towards that
great Buiiig whose Name is so often taken in vain ; morality is a feeling
towards man ; and to treat them as one and the same feeling is to
court confusion of thought within oneself^ and endless misunder-
standing without

There are vulgar errors and vulgar errors ; and " their name is
Legion." As the poet Thomson says, " The choice perplexes,"!
which, by-the-by, may well have given birth to the now hackneyed
French phrase Vembarras de cfwix j for Thomson's ** Seasons ** —
like Scott's novels after them, albeit not to the same degree— did notj
fail to leave their mark on Continental literature. There is no more '
widespread — and, in that sense, vulgar — error than the belief that
the Past dies ; a belief most a/>parenii}\ not to say obtrusively,
present in Longfellow's " Let the dead Past bury its dead," which j
further involves, though no doubt unwittingly, a perversion of the
Redeemer's bidding, " Let the dead bury their dead.*' Not a
syllable of a dead Past ! That is pure Longfellow. No, the Past.
never dies. It lives in us who live, and will live in our children.!
Hence, in spite of the "old said saw," bygones can never be entirely
bygones, though wc may strive our utmost to treat them as such.
Then, if the Past died, how could it bind us ? And if it bound us not,
where— as George Eliot so pertinently asks — would duty lie? Why,
we should haste to shirk all our obligations and frolic in a purely
animal immorality.

But ought one never to practise the proverb, " Forget and
forgive " ? That were surely neither Christian nor moral, to hug the
memory of old wrongs and ever lie in wait to avenge them.
Doubtless. But here comes in a distinction which the popular
proverb wholly ohscures : " Forgive, freely, with all your heart ; but
forget never." Forgive with all your heart, but remember with all
your head. And this for divers reasons; one of them being that, if
the great Schopenhauer's theory of madness be just, as we venture to
think it is, to court forgetfulness is to court madness. And mad
ness— like dealh — is already cheap enough. We roust court neither.

Here seems a fitting place to notice another widespread enor, to
wit, that Schopenhauer advocates suicide. We have read his works
from beginning to end : not a line that flowed from his pen has
escaped us ; and wc assure the non-l>chopenhauered reader that, Ikr
from advocating suicide, Schopenhauer severely condemns it as —
piu^doxioil though this must sotind and seem —the most vehement

Some Vulgar Errors. 55

affirmation of the sinful will to live. The reader will not expect us
to attempt to explain that startling paradox here and now in the
tail of a fluent paragraph. It needs, what Schopenhauer gives it, an
explanatory treatise to itself ; which to the reader might pass muster
or not But we will ask him to take our word for it, that
Schopenhauer strongly condemns self-slaughter; as indeed was
pointed out some ten years ago by the author of an article in the
ComMU MagMttu,

That necessity — or need — is the mother of invention, cannot
<airly be ranked as a vulgar enor. Need is the mother of all the
useful arts. There, however, at " useful," we must dmw the line ;
else we shall run headlong into the vulgar belief that need is the
mother of the beautiful arts, and starve our poets, our painters, and
their peers, on principle. Nay, then, but Juvenal knew better, and
tried to teach men better, some eighteen hundred years ago. We
know that Virgil was affluent. Donatus, indeed, makes him a mil-
lionaire. Juvenal soberly tells us that 'twas the work of a whole
mind, not distraught by the sordid cares of seeking food and
blankets, to pit i£neas against Tumus, and to paint the snakes that
encircle the heads of the Furies :

Magnae mentu opus, nee de lodice paranda
Attonitse.

And so our own Spenser sings :

The vaonted verse a vacant head demands,
Ne woDt with crabbed care the Mnse to dwelt

PHIUP KENT.

The Gent/eniafis Magazine,

THE ^ANTICIPATED SCARCITY OF
TIMBER.

As long as a great part of the world Tcmained unknown, man
had no consciousness of being cramped. In distance
there was always a beyond ; in resources there was always the
practically inexhaustible. But now that the world has been
measured and mapped, and no distance remains prohibLtive of
intercourse, man is beginning to feel a new sensation — that of being
cramped and confined within very definite bounds, and of being
severely limited in his resources. This is necessarily a new, a
modern sensation. The limitations of area and resources of which
peoples and races were conscious in the past, were accidental and
temporary. The limitations of which we are now conscious are
inevitable and ultimate. We cannot make the wor!d larger than it
is; we cannot increase its natural capacity of productiveness or
impart to it fresh qualities. We can call into exercise the latent
forces which it possesses, but we cannot create for it fresh forces.
We know the world for what it is ; and all we can do is to develop
as fully as possible its capabilities. In olden times there was
always an horizon beyond the one wc saw ; now we have seen the
farthest horizon. We are locked in, and are beginning to realise
the fact.

This consciousness of being locked in has taken some time to
become acute. Long after the geographers had demonstrated that
the earth was a sphere separated from the rest of the universe by an
immense distance, and even after most of the earth's surface had
been actually discovered by civilised travellers, the world seemed
wide enough and empty enough to make it unnecessary to anticipate
any inconvenience from its limited area. It is only in modern, quite
modem, times that human enterprise has so rapidly and extensively
swept across the oceans and over the continents as to compel man
CO take practical account of the ultimate limitations of the area on
which tt is possible for him to act. Enclosure has been added to

The AnticipaUd Scartiiy of Timtbcr. 57

endosme, ontfl we find omsdvcs viihin meascnbie i^^-g^"-*^ of the
day when the whtAc world will be mf\tiK^A

The £act dut we are opidljr appnuchii^ the "'"^Tr"'^ PrnTrf^frm
of die area in which we are moffnfd is bong c^iocaZy iui^eaaed
npoa OS by a phenomenon which only die more specCaszj^ r^mtrrt
of die past coald have antiripBTfd At the h«'gir-n?ng^ oc wha: «e

rail fiwHi^arion Jnnxt^ mrr^ m part th^ *4»u* ^ ni ;>w^K«w«y;>ifa> am

material, and in pan inq»eneciable ic^iiaiis of nnstay and fcac.
Gvilisation as it progressed found diera in die way, and he wfao
helped to clear them was a bmefartor to die nee. Tarrr, maA
later, when dmber had become immeasniafaiy more vahobfe^ farests
were sdll re^uded as practicany innhamrible ; and, tboog^ dieir
destmctioa was deploced in certain localises, it was left to dae mne-
teenth contuiy to awaken to the &ct dut it «as possibfie so to
deplete the forests as to bring about a world-wide dmber £umnc^
besides introducing calamitoiis ^-Hmafal and physical changes m
large districts. Here we come upon oar new coosaoasness of
terrestrial limitations. There are 00 new lands oyrered with nigia
fwests for OS to discover. If we are to hare in the fotcre a snppfy
oS timber cqaal to oar A^manH^^ ve must diaw it from die lands we
know of; and if those lands are to cootimie their present sopply,
their forests roust be dealt with much nxKe sdentiBcally than th^
are dealt with now. Thus the threatened timber famine possesses
an interest orer and above that which necessarily belongs to it— the
interest <tf being one of the first practical hints that we are locked in.
Thoi:^ the evidences npoa which the cry of danger to the
worid's timber supply is based are incontrovertible, that cry - in qiite
of the persistency with which it is repeated — may still be met with
incredulity by persons who have not paid special attention to the
subject The casual observer sees trees in abundance in most places
which he visits. He may have traversed some of the forest dis-
tricts of Germany and Russia, or been in the pine woods of the
northern countries of Europe. The " backwoods " of America, the
"virgin forests" of Canada, are terms that suggest to him timber
resources, the exhausdbility of which he may imagine that we can
safely leave to be discussed by our descendants. Then he is apt to
mention loftily the unsnrveyed tracts of Central Australia and
Central Africa, with an iiKidental reference to South America. He
knows of the immense forests in India, and has perhaps heard of the
enormous band of untouched forest land that stretches across
Asiatic Siberia. In the &ce of all this, the cry of alarm raised
iqppearf to him unnecessary, not to say ludicrous. But the initiated

The Geniitmatts Magazine.

know better. They know that the enormously increased and still
rapidly increasing modem demand for timtxjr of all kinds has already
made very serious inroads upon the more accessible forest territories
of the world ; that the timber has been, and in many parts still is,
felled in such a way as permanently to disafforest the districts in
which it grew ; that the limber- producing countries are every year
becoming more and more timber-consuming countries in the sense
that they either do, or soon will, need all their own timber for their
own use ; that some of the world's forest lands are so far away from,
and so inconveniently situated with respect to, the chief impwrting
countries, as to make the cost and trouble of conveying thence heavy
limber prohibitive until famine prices are reached ; that, in a word,
the present commercial demand for timber is so rapidly overtaking
the present reproduction of limber througliout the world, tliat unless
energetic measures on a large scale are very speedily taken to secure
an adequate annual reproduction a very near future will find the cry
of alarm converted into a universal lamentation over actual calamity.
Because a man can lose himself in a wood even in comparatively
woodless England, or can find in an hour's stroll a number of
magnificent jjark trees, it does not follow that there is a plethora of
limber in the world. Besides its annual crop of native timber,
Great Britain is buying every year many million pounds worth of
foreign limber, and is every year increasing its purchases. Trees do
not grow up like corn or cabbages. Few are worth much in less
than fifty years, and many require two hundred years to give them
their full value. From these data it is not difficult ti> discover that,
unless (are is taken to secure adequate reproduction^ the world's con-
sumption of tim1)er must speedily overtake the world'.s supply.

This is by no means all. A umber famine would be an enormous
commercial and industrial calamity, and would prejudicially affect the
conditions of life to an almost inconceivable degree ; but an equally
if not a more serious result would be the effect produced upon
climate and upon the general fertility of the earth by an excessive
diminution of forest areas. How great have already been the
clianges produced in the character of certain lands by the destruction
of forests is not at present known to, or if known is not seriously
considered by, the public at large. Influences that operate slowly
and obscurely are easily overlooked, though their effects may in the
long nin be most disastrous. It may appear to the unobservant and
thoughtless a ridiculously far cry from the reckless destruction o(
foresu to the spread of sandy deserts and arid tracts during historical
tiroes over Northern Africa, South-Westrm Asia, and Southern and

The Anticipated Scarcity of Tifnher. 59

Western Europe. Vet the two phenomena are connected as cause
and effect. It will be one of the politico-scientific tasks of the
future to determine what ratio must be maintained between the area
of woodland and of open country, in order to ensure the continued
fertility and habitability of tbc open country. No development of
industrially appHt^d science, no political sagacity, no intellectual cul-
ture, no social system which does not practically recognise the
necessity of preserving an equilibrium in Che great natural conditions
of the earth's surface, will save man from ruin. Not only is man
** locked in " here upon this globe, but he is able to make his world
unfit for him to live in. He can convert his garden into an unin-
habitable desert ; and he can do this with a facility of which very few
appear to have any conception. He has only to go on for a few
generations doing as he is now doing, supplying the year's market
with the produce of a century, and making no adequate provision for
the supplies of the future. The homely old phrase, familiar to agri-
culturist, about •' eating the calf in the cow's belly," describes what
is merely a invial blunder in comparison. Com and cattle can be
speedily and easily reproduced \ but not so trees and forests. Not
only do trees require many years to arrive at maturity ; but forests
when recklessly destroyed are restored with extreme diificulty, and
conditions are only too easily set up which render such restoration
almost impossible.

This article might be lengthened indefinitely by adducing a mul-
titude of facts in proof of the above assertions. These facts have
long been known to experts, and lo a small portion of the reading
public. Action has Iiecn taken in some countries ; but that action
is still too local, and in its totality altogether inadequate to the
urgency of the case. It is not enough that a few nations should pre-
serve their forests at home. What is urgently needed is that the
great timber producing regions of the world should be protected from
the calamity that threatens them, and through them all the peoples
of the earth. The problem is both a domestic and a cosmopolitan
one ; but to no Great Power is it more interesting than to the
British Empire. In one form and another Great Britain consumes
more timber than any other Power. Not one of the other
important old countries produces at home less timber relatively to
its sice. On the other hand, Britain owns, in her dependencies and
colonies, more forest land than any other Power in the world ; and
though her Indian forests are comparatively well taken care of, her
|-colQcne« are very urgently in need of some action to prevent the
ndtktt and wasteful destruction of their valuable timber tTca&ut«s>.

60 The CentUmmis Magazine,

Neither at home nor in the colonies can the matter be safely left
to uncontrolled private enterprise. At home, planting is insufficieDtly
remunerative to call forth— or even to justify — any considerable out-
lay on the part of the private capitalist ; in the colonies, where the
timber has been already accumulated by untrammelled Nature, the
private adventurer naturally considers only present profit and rushes
the wealth produced by past centuries into the ever-eager markets.
The inference is obvious : the whole question is one of State con-
trol, not of private enterprise. Even in a small, or comparatively
small, country like that of Britain, some kind of State initiative and
control is necessary. The amount of capital that must long lie dor-
mant, the extent of area required, the need for highly trained and
carefully regulated skill and labour, the fact that many of the
advantages derived from a judicious system of forest cultivation are
national rather than personal, the Importance of securing a conserva-
tion as well as a present supply of tlmbct— these and other reasons
afford an accumulative argument in favour of State control.

As to our own islands, it would be grossly unjust to our landed
class, cither of the past or the present, to accuse them of a blamable
indiffeience to timber cultivation. What growing timber we possess
we owe to the often unrcmuncrated zeal of our noblemen and
landed gentry in planting. We have unforgotlen traditions of
" planting dukes," and of others who have devoted mucli thought
and much money to this work. It is true that *' sport " has often
been one of the prompting motives, and that a taste for richly
timbered grounds has been another ; but there have been also other
motives at work of a more practical and sometimes of a patriotic
character. If there remains much land which might be planted
with advantage to the country as a whole, this is not due to any
reluctance to plant on the part of the landowners, but to their natural
disinclination to incur serious risks, and to withdraw capital from
more immediately profitable employment. Our arboricultural
societies arc kept up to a large extent by landowners who are
zealous promoters of forestry education and training. The British
landowners are doing what they can ; but the work which 1ms to be
done is too great for private, and too slowly remunerative for com-
pany, enterprise. What private enterprise cannot do, however, the
State might do, not only without loss but with profit to the nation.
State initiative and control in this matter would not be open to the
charge of benefiting one class at the expense of the rest. The
benefit would, in one form or another, be felt by all classes. Timber
is a commodity which is bound up with all the conveniences of life ;

The Anticipated Scarcity of Timber, 6i

and the physical benefits to be derived from a judiciously regulated
ratio between woodland and open fields would be shared by all
classes. It would be an extravagance to say, as some have done,
that Great Britain could be made to grow all the timber she needs
without interference with other land industries j but if she could be
got to laigely reduce the quantity imported, the advantage would be
universally felt when the stress of higher prices came — as it must
com^ however speedily the great timber-producing countries set
about the work of scientifically cultivating their forests. The evil
has already gone so far that it would be too optimistic to hope that
a temporary scarcity can be avoided. Such a scarcity is inevitable ;
but to us in Great Britain, at least, its severity would be diminished,
and its duration shortened, if some system of State forestry were
at once initiated.

ARTHUR RANSOM.

The Gentleman s Magazine,

Catherme had a humorous way of referring to her vast empire
as " my little household." While they were in the Crimea she said
to De S^gur—

" ni bet a wager, M. le Comic, that at this moment your fine
ladies, your fashionables, and your iiferati at Paris pit)- you greatly
for having to travel in this country of bears, amidst barbarians and
with a tiresome Ccarina. I respect your learned men, but I love
the uncultivated better ; for my own part I only wish to know what
is necessary for the management of my little hcuse/iold.^*

"Your Majesty," replied the Count, "amuses yourself at our
expense. You well know that no person in France thinks of you in
that manner. Voltaire is a sufticiently brilliant and clear inter-
preter to your Majesty of our opinions and sentiments. You should
rather be sometimes discontented with the species of fear and
jealousy which the prodigious increase oi your littU Itousthold %\y^%
to the greatest Powers."

France was a great upholder of Turkey, and tlie Empress,
referring to this, said lo the ambassador —

*' Avouez que vos Turcs sont de bien vilaines gens, et qu*il est
dommage dc les voir camper sur le Bosphore."

The Count diplomatically replied, " Que votre Majestd prenne
I'engagemcnt que d'autres ni plus vilaines ni plus beaux ne sc
prt^nteront dans les eaux du Bosphore."

The Comle de S^r was an excellent diplomatist as well as an
agreeable trifler. He did not spend all his time in writing plays for
the theatre at "The Hermitage, " or inventing rhymes. For years
the French ambassadors had been striving to make a commercial
treaty with Russia^ and obtain for French merchants advantages
enjoyed by the English. De S^gur seized the moment when there
happened to be a strong political feeling against Engbnd to press
the Treaty question, and carried it through to the satisfaction both
of his master and the Empress, who presented him with her portrait
set in diamonds, a set of valuable furs, and the sum of 40,000 francs.

The French Revolution brought the Comte de S^gur's mission
to an abrupt termination. His S3'mpathies were strongly with the
democrats, and he insisted on returning to France. No persuasions
on Ihc part of the Empress were of any avail. After his departure
Catherine showed great animosity against the Rcvolulionista, and
caused invectives to be published against them. The consequencK
was that she, in her turn, became a target for abuse, and the Count,
who probably knew more about the private life of the Empress than
any man out of Russia, is said to have inspired the pamphlets which

Catherine II. and ike CanUe de Signr. 65

appeared against her. Catherine's conduct furnished abundant
material for her enemies, and it is quite po^ible that De S^nr
turned informer. But it is only fair at the same time to remember
that he has left among his own records a very discriminating and
unprejudiced description of the Empress. According to him
Cathmne's habits were simple and somewhat austere. She rose at
six and lighted her own fire, and gave the morning hours to work
with her Ministers and Government officials. She was served at
table with as Uttle ^remony as a private person. Her pleasures
never interfered with her business, and she had such a graq> of
a&irs that her Bfinisters were more like secretaries, all the most
important despatches being written at her dictation. " Le g&iie de
Catherine £tait vaste^ son esprit fin ; on vpysut en elle un melange
^tonnai^ des quality qu'on tronve le plus rarement ramies. Trop
sensible aux plaisirs et cependant assidue au travail, elle £tait
natureUe dans sa vie priv6e, dissimul^ dans sa politique; son
ambiticm ne connaissait pas de bome^ mais elte la dirigeait avec
prudence. Omstante non dans ses passions mais dans ses amiti^
elle s*£tait fait en administration et en politique des prindpes fixes ;
jamais elle n'abandonna ni un ami ni un projet."

GEORGIANA HILL.

VM. CCXO. KO. 3047.

Tfu Gentlemans Magazine,

THE COLERIDGE COUNTRY.

AMONG the many vicissitudes in the life of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, there was only one spot that possessed for him the
trae affinities of home. Not the Lake District, not Nether Stowey,
not the dreamed-of elysium on tlie banks of the Susquehanna, but
a villi^e among the hills that cradle the brawling Otter, and the
scenes of which that \'illage is the centre, can alone claim the dis-
tinctive appellation of " The Coleridge Country." " For the world
in general," says a biographer of the poet, "the name of Coleridge
is so indissolubly connected with the Lake country and the Lake
poets, that the fact of his being by birth a Devonshire man is almost
forgotten." It was in the village of Ottery St. Mary that he first
saw the light ; in point of time the place can claim but few years of
his existence, but it remained to him, throughout life, the dearest
spot on earth, and however Ulysses-like his subsequent wanderings
may have been, a lengthening chain of memories and associations
kept his mind in touch with the scenes among which his earliest ties
were formed. It was, so to speak, the metropolis of his affections,
and thither until the end all the avenues of his fancy and his
thoughts tended.

His poetry abounds in allusions to these boyhood haunts. The
earliest notes that he uttered to the world are inspired by memories
of Ollery. In the dedication of his first-published volume to his
brother, the Rev. George Coleridge (which resembles Goldsmith's
very similar dedication of " The Traveller " to his brother, the Rev.
Henry Goldsmith, in nothing so much as in its longings for his first
home and its pensive regrets for wasted years of wandering), he says :

A blessed lot hath he, who haviDg past

His youth and early manhood in the stir

And tuimuit or the woild, letreais at length . . .

To the Hme dwelling inhere his fathen dwelt.

To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed
A diflereot fortune and more difTerent nund ;

Thf CsSgFw^

He was never vcaty cf "'"''-■"■t :
sbevn. Accpufipg lo ilie iiiHTi'iCBg s^ shl
nearif lost fais life liriwri iB«aBB:v^>K 3m ^ar laesm joobc
the anluiii of db aflcQaoo fcr £. Obe of Ics &i>JKcie: <»*wq^ ^^i
the ** Pizie^ Pinloar/ a saodr eamiLiLC. ic die s& ie ae -mnmA-
coTcnd hiD orerimigBi^ iSie bue. Iz zensHB 3&^vr 3c wcini •—^tt
die same uanlUiiai as vriea r&e poeE kaev 3L 7^ ties 3 :■£
trees " ixriertvined widi v3desz irinieL "ia ■fiip". ;s^ v:^ j^'
fonn the odlii^ of the tsrt : 33 Bc3es ^>& «i3s se bgo-c v!q

own and those of his iMutLov 'cK.'*'as at 'nWti^f
band of their cfafldhood.* Tbxbcf be jsrC h rsacn. "-c it. aac
sequestered reocst «oiiU mr^Tgc is •S-iy kc^ o*^ 21*^x9019
that were at ooce fas weakness xsd "bia s:r:s^±. ^tt teras. v
his ovennasterii^ chanc, asd =» in,:^^ cf -^^jp ^-^rtri'-iyiry ai£
impotence dnt weO-ni^ prored ha rxr:. " T-nfi^rT^ b£ btx^

Of wild OBES 2in& tS^K' T I II j ' K^^

Of ndoiisoc sxc sxc^ sbskic.

In his lines ** To a Beantiftil Spring in a VuK^e^* be ^1^ mi,
his £Avoazite streain in terms of no sdnzed ^frrrion :

Oaeemmtt sweet Kreaa, wi&tiem tux. «*■*— ^^^ »>**y

I blem thy Milky waun ecU Bad dor

Eicaped the fli^EBg of die nooB-cide kons ;

WnhoDC frab ptiacd atf^FSemc Amtu

(Ere froB tbe Kffayr-bwnud fank I tsx,<

My bagaid hud daS wratb ifay Brwj hb.

Tberattic here at r-r ttTi imbijh yi^t^^^

WUtfliaE km dima, lau ipoa tn onA ;

Or WaitiBE, pwnesvitk hope-ai^|ed die^

To Ktt die BBdb-loTed bsIA wi ■humi i] uaA.

Sbt, TBUilj KODdM of bcT dice's eoaaaid,

Loitas tbe lone -filled pitcker ia bet hwL

68 Th4 Gentleman' s Magazine,

Unboftstful stfeam ! tliy fount with pebbled falls,
The faded foim of past delight rccilU,
What time the moming lun of hope arose
And ftU was joy. . . .

The satae theme inspires him again in the lines " Written in
Early Youth":

Dev native farook t like pctcc so pkctdly
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek.
Dear native brook ! where 6rst young poesy,
Sured wildly eager in her noon-tide dream,
Where blameless pleasures dimples quiet's cheek
As water-tilies ripple a slow ntream.
Oc&r DAtivc haunu ! where virtue still U gay.
Where friendship's fixed sur sheds a mellowed ray ;
No more slull deck your pensive pleasures sweet,
Willi wreaths of sober hue my evening seat ;
Vet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene
Of wood, hill, vale and -iparkling brook t>etweett }
Vet sweet to Fancy's eu the warbled song
That soars on morning's wing, your viles among.

The beautiful sonnet "To the River Oiler" affords yet further
prooC iT such were required, of his tender and lingering regard
for the scenes of his childhood :

Dear native brook I Wild ictreamlet of the West t
How miuay various-fated yean have passed,
What blissful and what anguished hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stnne along thy breast.
Numbering its light leaps ! Vet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never ^hut amid the sunny blaze,
But strsigbt with all their tints thy waters rise ;
Thy aossing plank, thy margin's willowy mate
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze I
Vlsioiis of childhood I Oft liave yc beguiled
Lone manhood cares, yet waking fondest sighs.
Ah ! that once more I were a carelcs child.

In their aspects and history the scenes so celebrated are not
unworthy of the poef s devotion to them. Ottery St Mary might be
summarily described, in the language of the gazetteer, as an ancient
market-town situate in a fertile valley on the eastern bank of the
River Otter. But this would convey no adequate idea of the
quiet, old-world charm, the sense of retirement and seclusion, and
the sleepy atmosphere of poetic association that linger about its
streets, and seem to impregnate the life and thought of the place

The Coleridge Country. 69

Owing to its proximity to Exeter it has played an important part in
the histoiy of this country. During the long and dis^cting period
of the Wars of the Roses, the splendid days of Elizabethan enteiprise^
the chances and changes of the time of Cromwell, the little town upon
the Otter figures again and again. It was here that Henry VI.
lingered on bis way to Exeter what time the dty streets ran with the
rival blood of Lancaster and York. It was here that Raldgh made
his home. It was here, at a room in Hayes Court (the seat of the
late Lord Chief Justice Coleridge), that Cromwell held a convention
for the purpose of raising men and money to fight the forces of
Charles ; and it was bete that Fairfax had bis headquarters when,
after the splendid victory of Naseby, he marched to quell the
opposition in the West. Like Exeter, but unlike Plymouth and the
northern part of the county, Ottery adhered to the Royalist cause
during the civil wars of the seventeenth century, and it was probably
on this account that the two great leaders of the armies of the Parlia-
ment chose it as their temporary abidingplace. But the literary associ-
ations of a locality are ever more interesting and abiding than those
of a martial character, and Ottery is prouder of being the birthplace
of Coleridge than of any real or imaginary distinction that kings or
potentates may have conferred upon it. Thackeray was a frequent
sojourner in the neighbourhood, and what the author of "West-
ward Ho ! " was to Bideford, that, to a great extent, the author of
" Pendennis " was to Ottery St Mary. Beneath a thin disguise, we
have little difficulty in recognising the identity of Clavering St. Mary
with that of the town upon the Otter, and Coleridge himself has not
given us more charming pictures of the place than are to be found
in the pages of " Pendennis." What, for instance, could be more
charming or true to the facts than his description of " The Happy
Village"?—

" Looking at the little old town of Clavering St Mary from the
London Road, as it runs by the Lodge at Fairoaks, and seeing the
rapid and shining Brawl winding down from the town and skirting
the woods of Clavering Park, and the ancient church tower and
peaked roofs of the houses rising up amongst trees and old walls,
behind which swells a fair background of sunshiny hills that stretch
fit>m Claverii^ westward towards the sea, the place looks so cheery
and comfortable that many a traveller's heart must have yearned
towards it fi-om the coach-top, and he must have thought that it waa
in such a calm friendly nook he would like to shelter at the end of
life's struggle." The original of " Fairoaks,** the family demesne of
the Pendenniaes, differs in nothing but the name from a place well

The Gentleman s Magazine,

knovn in Ottery, where Thackeray used frequently to stay in his
holiday visits lo the West. "Clavering Park" is no less easily
distinguishable ; " the rapid and shining Brawl," celebrated as the
scene of Mr. Pen's fishing and philandering expeditions, is no other
than the Otter itself. Even the tree, in the hoUow of which the
novelist's hero used to deposit his box of ground-bait and other fish-
ing commodities, and which afterwards served the purpose of Love's
post in his passage at hearts with Miss Amery, is known and
indicated as an object of rare interest today. Thackeray, in his own
inimitable way, has caught and expressed that drowsy, old-world
atmosphere so generally associated with ancient respectable market-
towns, and so particularly inseparable from Ottery.

An object of important interest in the village is the Abbey
Church, which rises up on the south side of the market "with its
great grey towers, of which the sun illuminates the delicate carvings,
deepening the shadows of the huge buttresses, and gilding the
glittering windows and flaming vanes." Were it not a little beside the
mark, it would be no uninteresting task to sit at ihc feet of our good
friend Dr. Fortman and learn something of the history of this
venerable pile. How it fared beneath the hands of the pious
Vandals of Puritan days ; how it survived its rude and repeated
purifications of fire ; how many of wise and of warlike have
worshipped within its walls ; what scenes of bravery and of blood j
what chances and changes, what hopes and fears its aged eyes have
looked down upon ! In the long array of names, more or less
distinguished, that occur in connection with the edifice, there
is one that appeals to us with a sense of peculiar recognition.
It wa."; probably about the commencement of the sixteenth century
that Alexander Barclay was appointed by Bishop Cornish to a
chaplaincy at Ottery St. Mary. He was one of the last, as well as
one of the most popular, jioets of the era rhat immediately preceded
the great sunburst of Elizabetlun song. In the light of retrospective
criticism he does not occupy a very exalted position in the scale of
poetic merit, but witli his contemporaries " The Ship of Fools " was
popular for the unsparing onslaught il made upon the follies and
vices of the times. To the reader of to-day its chief interest is in the
picture it gives of contemporary manners and custom.-i. It abounds
in allusions to the locality and people in and among which and
whom the poet lived. At the end of the Latin dedication prefixed
to the i>oem the following note appears : "This present boke, named
the * Shyp of Folys of the Worlde,' was translated in the College
Ssymc Olery in the cotmtc of Devonshyre : out of Latin, French

The Coleridge Country.

7«

and Doche into Englysshe Tonge by Alexander Barclaye, Preste ;
■nd at ihat time chaplen in the sayde college : Translated in the
year of our Lord God MCCCCC, VIIJ."

In modem times the name of the Rev. John Coleridge, Vicar of
the parish, and Chaplain-Priest, and Master of the King's School, ia
one which, for oar present purpose, is more important than that of
Barclay's. Apart from the interest that attaches to him as father of
the author of " OiHstabel," he was himself a personality to be
reckoned with. He was one of the best Hebrew scholars of his lime.
Il is said that, while preaching, he would frequently exclaim, "These,
my brethren, are the words of the Holy Spirit," proceeding to quote
from the Hebrew original, to the admiration, doubtless, if not to the
edification, of his rustic hearers. De Quincey tells several stories of
his eccentricity and absent-mindedness, some of which, however, are
protiably more legendary than true. His son Samuel says of him
that "in learning, good-hcartedness, absentness of mind, and exces-
sive ignorance of the world, he was a perfect Parson Adams." He
was the author of several books, including a "Critical Latin
Grammar " and " Miscellaneous Dissertations arising from 17th and
iSih chapters of the Book of Judges."

Next to the church, the greatest object of interest in the village
was, until recently, the Free Grammar School, commonly called the
" King's School," founded by Henry VIU. Of this establishment
the elder Coleridge was, as has been indicated, formerly the master;
so also was the Rev. Mr. Wapshott, of " Pendcnnis." On the
death of his father in 1781, Coleridge became a day scholar at the
King's School, and continued in this capacity until early in the
following year, when a presentation to Christ's Hospital was obtained
for him. The school was some few years since pulled down, and a
garden now adorns the site where once it stood. Some of Coleridge's
biographers assert that the old King's School was actually the birth-
place of the poet, but the Rectory— "a stout, broad-shouldered
brick house of the reign of Anne," as Thackeray describes it — has
probably a better claim to this distinction.

In [783 the orphaned youth was ** transplanted " from the place

of his " first domestic loves " and inducted into his new life as

ft tivcried school-boy in th« depths
or the huge city.

Thus, "Tom by early sorrow from his native seal," it is not un-
natural that his thoughts should revert to those early scenes, as to
an Eden from which an unkind Fate had banished him. That this
as so is evident from the references to this period which occui vr,
bis later poems. Years a/ier ihe^ walls of the o\d Gte^ Yrat^Xa^

Tht GentUiftan s Magazine.

ceased to echo the accents of " the inspired charity boy," in the
solitude of his cottage at Stowey, he recalls some of the impressions
of those lonely schoolboy days. Musing by the low-bumt fire at
midnight, and gazing on that fluttering film of soot upon the grate,
which, country superstition avers, betokens the advent of a stranger
at one's beartli, he says :

How oft at School, with most believing miiul,

Presogcfiil, have I gaiwl tipon the bnr»

To watch Ihe fluttering atmngcr 1 Aod u oftr

With uodosed liJii olicady have I dreametl

Of my sweet Birthplace, and the old church lower.

Whose belli, the poor nun's only music, ctatig

From mom to evening all the hot Fiii-day,

So sweetly that they stirred and btunted me

With 8 wild pic&surc, falling od my car

Most lilce articulate sounds of things to come I

So gazed I till the soothing thingt I dreamt

Lulled me to sleep, and &leep prolonged my dreams I

And ED I brooded alt the following morn.

Awed by the stem preceptor's Dice, mine eye

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :

Save if the door half-ojicncd, aod I snatched

A hasty glance, uid still my heart IcAped up,

For still I hoped to see the stianger's face,

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved.

My playmate when we both were clotlied alike 1

There was at least one among his schoolfellows who was able to
understand and appreciate these dreams and longings of the poor
friendless boy. In •'Recollections of Christ's Hospital," "The
Melancholy Elia," one of Coleridge's earliest friends, speaks for him
in the following passage : " My parents and those who should care
for me were far away. Those few acquaintances of theirs whotn they
could reckon upon as being kind to me in the great city, after a little
forced notice which they had the grace to take of me on my 6rst
arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holiday visits. They seemed
to them to recur too often, though I thought them few enough ; and
one after another they all failed nac, and I felt mjscU' alone among
some six hundred playmates. , . . How in my dreams would my
native town (far in the West) come back with its church, and trees,
and faces ! And I would wake weeping, and in the anguish of my
heart exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire.*"

" 'Calne' of course," says Mr. J, Dykes Cam)>bell in his "IJfe
of Coleridge," " is only Lamb's device for concealing bis friend's
identity, and was selected, doubtless* partly for its cadence and partly
because Coleridge resided there shonly before going to Highgatc.

With his entrance to Christ's Hospital, Coleridge's persooal con-

The Coleridge Country, 73

nection with Ottery was practically at an end. Although the place
seems never to have lost its old charm for him, and his holiday visits
thereto in after years were not infrequent, he appears never to have
penioanently settled there after his first exile from it. It is possible
that he spent some time there in 17S4, 17S9, and 1790. Again in
1 791, between school and college, it is reasonably certdn that he
went home, and the poem entitled " Happiness " bears internal signs
of having been written at Ottery at this time. The long vacation of
X793 appears to have been spent with his family at Ottery. To this
period belong the verses called " Kisses " and " The Rose," which
were originally addressed to Miss F. Nisbett, of Plymouth, whither
the author accompanied his eldest brother on a visit. The " Song
of the Pixies " appears also to have been written on the occasion of
this home-going.

After his departure from Cambridge in 1794 there appears to
have been a breach of the friendly relations existing between himself
and his family; but in the summer of 1796 he paid a visit of recon-
ciliation to Ottery. Of this visit he says, in a letter to Rev. J. P.
Estlin, of Bristol, a friend and frequent correspondent of the poet's :
" I was received by my mother with transport, and by my brother
George with joy and tenderness, and by my other brothers with affec-
tionate civility."

In a letter to his brother George in 1798 he proposed another
visit to Ottery, but this appears not to have been carried out, and on
his next return thither in August 1799 he was accompanied by his
wife. Southey, who with his wife had set out for Sidmouth at the
same time, was detained with the Coleridges at Ottery for some days.
The gathering seems to have been a very happy one, notwithstanding
the frequent disputes that took place between Coleridge and his
brothers touching the extravagant political and religious views that
the fonner had espoused. Southey, in a letter to his friend John May,
gives an interesting description of the family gathering : " We were
all a good deal amused," he says, "by the old lady [Coleridge's
mother]. She could not hear what was going on, but seeing Samuel
arguing with his brothers, took it for granted that he must be wrong,
and cried out, * Ah ! if your poor father had been alive, he'd soon
have convinced you.' "

This was Coleridge's last visit to his native place. A lasting
rupture arose between him and his family in consequence of the
former's proposed separation from his wife. A return visit was
suggested in 1807, but it was never carried into effect, and Ottery
saw its best and noblest son no more.

PEKCIVXL H. ^. K\:MX.

The Genilentan's Magazine,

MR. WYATT.

HE had the &ir of a music-master. We were unanimous on that
point. The pursuit of no other calling could produce that
look of pensive longing, or the pathos of those hollow cheeks and
that emaciated stoop. Yes, he was, be must be, a music-master ;
and our opinion was slrcngthcned when, after I had been hard at
work all one morning on Chopin's " Fifth Prelude," near an open
window, a neat professional card was found in the letter-box,
inscribed : "Mr. Wyatt, Professor of Music, 156 Tinterden Road."

*' Peter," I said, ** that black, cadaverous man is a muslc-mastcr,
and he lives in Tinterden Road. He heard me practising this
morning, and thought I needed a few lessons, so he's left a card to
show me that I need not go far for instruction."

After this, Mr. Wyatt became an object of daily interest, as he
passed up and down the Terrace, intent on his high and artistic
calling. Not that he possessed any of those melodramatic adjuncts
peculiar to musical genius. He had no mane of waving hair ; he
was not clean-shaven ; he wore no velvet coal. On the contrary,
he had close- cropped, black, oily hair, and a stubbly moustache, and
was neatly attired in black serge. In fact, as Peter said, he looked
like a young man from a draper's shop, turned dissenting parson,
who combined the clerical with the lay garb so successfully as to
produce only a neat demureness of appearance. Nor was there the
fascination of Bohemia about him. No, he possessed none of
these attractions. Twice every Sunday, with a targe prayer-book
tucked under his arm, he passed up and down the Terrace on bis
way to and from church. "Ah ! an organist," we said. On these
occasions his woman-kind accompanied him. With an elderly
woman on bis right arm, whom we conjectured to be hts mother or
molher-in-Iaw, and on his left a tail, angular woman, who we at once
said was his wife, or perhaps his sister, with a sweet, pensive, yet
triumphant smile upon his face, Ins walk along the Terrace partook
of the nature of a saintly progress. Such an example of sanctified
coquettishncfts wc had never before seen in a man. It was absurd,

Mr. WyatL

ridiculous, e?en contemptible — opinions which were banished the
moment we felt the influence or the sweet but resigned melancholy
of his careworn face.

One cannot ridicule that which one pities.
It was a real pleasure to ns when we saw him riding a bicycle.
How many months of self-denial might not that purchase have cost
him? It was rather a nice bicycle, too, and he rode it not un-
gracefully.

Perhaps Fortune was going to smile on our music-master. But,
aUs for the frailty of human life and the tmcertainty of human
hope !

When next we saw him he was mourning.

He passed down the Terrace that Sunday as before, but the
saintly friskiness was gone. He wore a d^^p hat-band, and carried
blade Icid gloves and an umbrella.

How hard it seemed that to lives so little joyous, spent not in
grinding or sordid, but — what is perhaps more painful to some
natures— /afrt^'n>^ poverty, the separation of death should come !
We felt not a little sympathy for Mr. Wyatt, and a melancholy
curiosity as to the nature of the loss he had sustained. On the other
hand, we felt that the consolations of his religion must be bearing
him up under his afHiction. It is at such a time as this that one
appreciates the worth of religion. Mr. Wyatt mourned for fully
twelve months, although, as time went on, the burden of his woe
appeared lighter. In the early days of our interest our observation
had been more general than particular. We had seen him surrounded
by his woman folk and had vaguely characterised them as his mother
or sister or wife, or what not. Now we became aware that his
companions never exceeded two in number. The third — there had
often been a third — had disappeared. She it was whom death had
taken.

But — wife, sister, or mother— Mr. Wyatt was recovering from her
loss. His step had once more resumed its jaunty demureness : he
even seemed to be indulging in a reverential witticism on the
Sunday's sermon with one or other of the clinging women whom he
supported. It is not pleasant to think that the dead are so easily
Corgotten, but who could resent the fact that happiness in some
measure was returning to a life of such sombre possibihties ?

Happiness was returning to Mr. Wyatt. Of that there could be
no doubt. But we feared for his health. In spite of the bicycle,
the purchase of which had necessitated such economy, Mr. Wyatt
was finding it necessary to visit many of his pupils in a hansom cab.

unsom became more frequeni
occasions Mr, Wyatt was not alone.

In spite of his poverty, his asceticism, and ap|
death, K(r. Wyatt evidently intended to marry.

We had but fleeting glimpses of the lady of
seemed neither very young nor very pretty. CI
have been, for, as tlic da)-s went by, Mr. Wyall's di
more and more apparent. Then the bdy disappear)
went to his pupils unattended, although he was oi
supported by ihe usual number of feminine adherents,

About this time I left home to pay a short visit.
Ijack, my friends called, as at other times, to con;
themselves on my return. Some of them, however, ci
business-like and less pleasant enand. They were ",
in every sense of that comprehensive word, and the)
me if I would take Geraldine's Sunday-school class ft
as she was going away for a week to a wedding, ai
attendant.

Naturally I fel t somewhat aggrieved. I am
Curates had never attracted me, even before my hair «
bachelor vicars of High Church tendeacies always
chilly and neuralgic

But, as I told Peter, if I am not "good ** I am "t
taui^t Geralduic's class of rirl" ihir &

The Gentleman s Magazine,

But as his health declined, his spirits rose. He became thinner
than ever, his face in repose more melancholy, but there could be no
doubt tliat that gentle, coquettish buoyancy grew apace.

One day Peter came to roe and said that he had seen Mr. Wyatt
going down the Terrace just after sunset with his arm round some
girl's waist. Peter spoke rather under his breath : we were not in
the liabit of mentioning such tilings, and the idea in connection with
Mr. \V)-att seemed preposterous- But it was a fact, for I saw the
same thing myself n few days later.

The use of the hansom became more frequent, and on many
occasions Mr, Wyatt was not alone.

In spite of his poverty, his asceticism, and apparent nearness to
death, Mr. Wyatt e\idently intended to marry.

We had but fleeting glimpses of the lady of his choice. She
seemed neither very young nor very pretty. Charming she must
have been, for, as the days went by, Mr. Wyatt's devotion became
more and more apparent Then the lady disappeared. Mr. Wyatt
went to his pupils unattended, although he was on Sundays still
supported by the usual number of feminine adherents.

About this lime I left home lo pay a short visit ^\'Tien I came
back, my friends called, as at other times, to congratulate roe or
themselves on my return. Some of them, however, came on a more
business-like and less pleasant errand. They were " good " people,
in every sense of that comprehensive word, and they came to ask
me if I would take Geraldine*s Sunday-school class for one Sunday,
OS she was going away for a week to a wedding, and the gaieties
attendant.

Naturally I fell somewhat aggrieved. I am not "good,"
Curates had never attracted me, even before my hair was put up, and
bachelor vicars of High Church tendencies always make me feel
chilly and neuralgic

But, as I told Peter, if I am not " good " I am " amiable." So I
taught Geraldine's class of girls that Sunday afternoon. It was my
first experience of that kind.

There were collects, and hymns, and the ringing of bells to indi*
cate the exact moment for each. The girls were uninteresting, and
found the greatest difficulty in responding correctly lo my question,
*' What is thy Desire 7 " I felt very weary, and even went so far a&
to suppress a yawn in the middle of a plaintive hymu, when my
attention was arrested. . . . Did I not see our Mr. Wyatt singing,
Gunoundcd by a group of girls?

He xt^t an organist, then, and this was his church.

Mr. Wyaii.

The hymn was finished, but instead of a collect and the benedic-
tion immediately following, as I had been given to understand they
would, Mr. Wyatt advanced.

He walked up the long room with the same air of a saintty
progress that was so well-known to us on the Terrace. Arriving at
the reading desk, he paused.

I held my breath— was he going to teach us to sing ; or was he
going to sing himself as an object-lesson ?

Neither.

Turning from right to left, with a curious glance which seemed
intended to catch some eyes and pass by others, he b^an — " My
dear young ladies."

Now there were a few men teachers besides Mr. Wyatt at the
Sunday-schoo!, but they were evidently not included in his address.
This, then, was the meaning of that discriminating glance — he was
speaking to girls only.

My name is Celia, but I recoUecl feeling a dim, uncomfortable
uncertainty whether I was not a man, and ought to go. However,
the other men stayed, and, on second thoughts, I did too.

" My dear young ladies," began Mr. Wyatt, *' in looking back, as
one always does when a change from any established order of things
is imminent, the first feeling that one experiences is that of regret
If ibis be the case when leaving behind us unpleasant memories
how much more so when the past has been a happy one? The
kind interest that you have always taken in my poor affairs " — here I
thought Mr. Wyatt looked a triHc conscious, and certainly more
than one young lady blushed — " makes me feel it to be my duty, as
well as my privilege, to inform you of an important step which I am
about to uke."

There was a hushed expectancy in the air, and, as Mr. Wyatt

1 tpoke, his audience hung upon his words. I glanced at the faces

' around me. Here was one with bright eyes, flushed checks and

tremulous lips. Her neighbour was differently affected. She

looked cold, haughty, and so scornful that her very scorn gave the

^ lie to that apparent indi Terence. But Mr. Wyatt was speaking.

'* My dear young ladies," he repeated, "I am about to marry
r^agun."

"Ah I * widower, as we thought," I murmured to myself.
FThe temptation to took round again at my neighbours was
inesistible.

The scornful girl opposite me had bitten her Up till it bled.
Cruel I I looked another way, only to meet the eyes of the ^izl

The Genllemans Magazine,

nhose flushed cheeks had now turned pale. It would not do. I
kept my glances to myself, and sat and wondered. What peculiar
attraction for the fair sex did this poor sallow-faced musician
possess ? Scornfiil Miss Denvcrs was a lady by birth and education,
and her father, Dr. Denvers, if not wealthy, had one of the finest
practices in the neighbourhood ; while pretty, flushed Miss Carlyon,
I knew, had many admirers.

Heedless of the fact that Mr. Wyalt was still speaking, I sat still,
with downcast eyes, the one question repeating itself in my mind,
" Wliat can be the attraction ? "

At that moment I began to believe in " magnetism."
But Mr. Wyatt was finishing his little address. I came in for
his last remarks. 1 understood bim to say that, as their sympathy
had not failed him in his sorrow, so now he looked for it in his
happiness — his great happiness — a happiness which was possibly
only heightened by a half-regretful backward thought of the things
that had been. Not only for himself did he crave this kind and
sympathetic feeling, but for his future bride, " a good, Christian lady,
who would be of the greatest possible help to him in that labour
which was the joy of his heart."

I think the vicar seemed relieved when it was all over, and,
indeed, so emotionally had his organist spoken that one might not
unnaturally have looked for tearful effects in so responsive an
audience.

I paid but little attention either to final collect or benediction,
and my feelings of weariness had long since disappeared. Threading
my way among the crowding children, I gained the door, and was
walking thoughtfully down the flagged pathway leading from the
school to the road, when I espied Miss Leslie, whom I had not
noticed during the afternoon, some fifty paces ahead of me. Miss
Leslie is an interesting woman —plain, sensible, and humorous.

I hurried to overtake her. Hearing my footsteps, she turned,
and greeted me with — *' Well ! I am surprised to sec you teaching
a Sunday-school class." Miss Leslie knows tliat my tastes do not
he in the direction of philanthropy, and 1 have before now Binarted
under tlie caustic la.sh of her remarks. But I disregarded her
innuendo, and asked her the question thai 1 had been asking myself
for the last half-hour.

" What can be the attraction ? "

" What can be the attraction ? Why, money ! "

" Money ! " I exclaimed. *' A poor organist like Mr. Wyatt ! "

Miss Leslie looked at mc wonderingly a moment

Mr, Wyaii.

" Mr. Wyatt ? 1 don't know who it is you're talking about I
thought you meant Mr. Passmore, who has been announcing his
coming marriage this afternoon to his many worshippers."
It was my tarn now to wonder.

" But he's Mr. Wyatt," I said stubbornly, "a poor music-master,
an organist, who has saved up money enough to buy a bicycle — he's
poor, very poor, lliough "—meditatively—" he does drive rather often
in hansom cabs."

I was determined that Peter and I should not be done out of our
little romance.

'• How can Mr Passmore be Mr. Wyatt ? " urged the sensible
Miss Leslie. " I presume you arc speaking of the gentleman who —
this afternoon— announced his intention of re-marrying ? " I nodded
my head.

" Well ! " said Miss Leslie, " that is Mr. Fassmoret a widower —
his wife died eighteen months ago. He has ;^7,oooa year, and lives
at the other end of your Terrace."

" But," I protested, " if he had ;^7,oqo a year he would not live in
our Terrace."

" He prefers to spend his money on charities," stud Miss Leslie
severely.

"On his Christian and philanthropic labours," I corrected.

Miss Leslie smiled. " Yes," she said, "he is much interested
in the physical culture of the working girl. He devotes a large
portion of his leisure to giving her musical drill. ANTiat is left over
be spends in choosing the different coloured ribbons used in the
various exercises."

" Ah," I murmured, " we knew he was aesthetic. We were right
there."

Miss Leslie looked contemptuous. But my cuKosity was not yet
satis&ed.

"Whom is he going to marry ?" I asked.

" A cousin of his first wife's. She is ver>' delicate ; so was his wife.
Id feet " — a little grimly—" I don't think anyone robust would have
a chance."

I looked rather keenly at Miss Leslie.

'* He must be what Peter calls a frequent widmmr^ I said.

" The future Mrs. Passmore faints when you look at her, I'm told."

1 looked again at Miss Leslie, but gave no sign, I tmst, of my
tlunigbts.

" It has been a grtat blow to the Misses Mullins," she went on.
" They were perfectly furious at first."

The Gentleman s Magazine.

"Who are the Misses MuUins?" I asked.

" Don't you know the Misses Mullins ? They go to church with
him every Sunday. One of them acted aheniately with iier sister as
companion to his wife before she died. After her death he found it
so lonely they both stayed as lus companions."

"Then they weren't his mother and sister ! We always thought
they were his mother and sister. What an out-of-the-way man he
must be'"

With all our im^^inings about Mr, Wyalt, Peter and I had never
credited him with originality.

" You," I said ; " you know them — and him ? "

" Oh, yes, I know them. I was there one evening for supper.
That is one of Mr. Passmore's peculiarities ; he never will dine in
the evening. He says a 'cold repast 'suits him better, and makes
him feci more fit for "

" His Christian and other labours," I chimed in.

" Quite so," said Miss Leslie.

" But do tell me what happened when you went there ! "

" So I will, if you will let me."

" I'm sorry," I said. " I'm dying to hear."

"Weill after supper Mr. Passraore produced innumerable
coloured ribbons, and for a long lime employed us in tying bows of
the colours of his choosing. He was full of enthusiasm, as there
was to be a musical drill exhibition by the AVinsford Rope Factory
girls the next week. At last, to my great relief, the Misses Mullins
created a diversion by insisting on my going upstairs to see a piece
of Roman embroidery they had just finished. I went willingly,
though I didn't care twopence for the embroidery, but anything was
belter than those eternal ribbons. But instead of bringing out the
embroidery, no sooner had they closed the door than they Ihiew
themselves upon me with — 'Oh, Miss Leslie, how shall we save
dear Jack ?' I looked at them, and then an awful suspicion crossed
my mind. The meaning of the drill and the bows and the Christian
labour flashed upon me. ' What?' I said, in a frightened whisper,
' He*s mad ? ' ' Mad ? Of course he's mad. Isn't it madness to
think of marrying a woman like that— so delicate that she has to
winter abroad— and a weak heart— wby, she faints if you look at her.'

"The Misses Mullins' distress was evidently produced by quite a
different sort of oudness to what I had thought They described
ererythiog to roe — ^how Mr. Passmore had met this cousin of his
wife's, and how they liad become engaged, and the cruel moment
when he had broken the news to them. And then they wailed, and

said that they must save dear Jack, and wanted to know if I didn't
think it would be a good plan for them to ask their vkar to speak to
dear Jack, and point out to him how important it was for his bapfH-
ness that he should marry some one who could help him in his
various charitable schemes. 1 felt doubtful, but, as they had set their
hearts on it, I suppose they did speak to the vicar, and that is the
reason * dear Jack ' referred to the * good Christian lady * who is to
be such a help to him."

"Well, it was no use?"

** No use at all, as you heard to-day. The good Christian lady
has already persuaded him to spend a little more money on other
things than philanthropy. He is leaving his house, and taking that
large one with the pretty gardens near the Park gates. We shall
next hear of a carnage and pair, I expect."

Wc had been loitering along to spin out the distance we had to
walk together before our ways separated. Now we had come to a
stand-stitl, and, as it was rather late, and I knew Peter would be
waiting for me to give him his lea, I said good-bye to Miss Leslie
and hurried home.

I found Peter sitting in the dusk, with only the firelight for com-
pany, I burst in upon him.

" Oh, Peter 1 such news I " I said, as I flung off my furs and
gloves. •' But ril give you your tea first, as il*s waiting. . . . Such
news I Mr. Wyatt is not poor, nor a music-master, nor Mr. Wyatt
atalL"

"AVhat is he then ? " asked Peter.

•• He's Mr, Passmore, and a merchant, and rich, and he's going
to be married to 'a good Christian lady who will be of great help to
him in his philanthropic labours.* "

I broke off", laughing. **I have brought the trick of speech
making from the Sunday SchooL"

" But how do you know all this ? " Peter asked, for he is some
times a little sceptical of stories and imaginings in which he has act
collaborated.

" He told me so himself— at least, not that. But. you know,
Peter, he does teach in a Sunday School, although he isn't an
org^st. He taught in the Sunday School this aAernoon, and when
it was nearly all over, and there ought to have been a collect, he made
a speech and announced his engagement. His speech was quite as
good as a collect. I mean, it made you feel as ecclesiastical. Do
you know that to hear Mr. Wyatt speak is a great incentive to **
I hesitated, t was going to say eloquence, but I thought of xo^viU
vou ccxcu NO. 2047. Q

Tf^ Genthtnan s Alagazine.

possible correction — " volubility ; even Miss Leslie,
ing to me afterwards, spoke Hke a book."
lid Miss Leslie tell you all about it ? "
much as she knew. And she knows a good deal. She
i Mr. Wyatt's— I mean, of Mr. Passniore's — atid of ihe
lins."

ire the Misses Mullins ? "

11 telt you all about it properly," I said, and so, while

s, muffins, I described my afternoon, and told my news,

had finished we both sat silent for a while.

it disappointing, isn't it, Peter ? I suppose Mr. Fenwick

t when he says that musicians never brush their hair —

do it. The close- cropped, sleek-haired Mr. Wyatt^ —

I thought— isn't Mr. Wyatt at all, but Mr. Passmore,

&u know/' I went on, more cheerfully — it is curious how
Imen always become over episodes of this kind in the lives
I" do you know, I think Miss Leslie had felt a slight
|ir the position of helpmeet to Mr. Wyatt? She is so
religious, she ' district-visits ' and all that kind of thing.

jine why Mr, Wyatt didn't marry her instead of the other

** T T ISTORIES make men wise," ' says Bacon; but does not
XT. Ihis terse proposition require qualification ? Histories of
what? Not of the names of kings and of their mistresses, but the true
story of peoples, of their customs, and above all of their laws. The
cnstonuuy Uw of any insulated nation is the true fountain of its
history, its wars and alliances but part of the stream. If, then, the
right reading of true history makes men wise, how essential is it that
the sources of the customary law of the district to which it applies
should be accurately ascertained and investigated 1

The district under present consideration is that which lies on
both versanis of the Occidental Pyrenees, including the country of
the peoples of Bigorre, Bdam. Gascony, and Basque-land. The
popular idea, though propped up by Laferriere,* that the Basques are
a nation apart, in so far as regards tiieir liaving separate institutions
and customs, is erroneous. This idea may well lie attributed to our
ignorance of the origin of the Basques, to their having a separate
language and personality, and to the passionate attachment shown
by them of late, in two Carlist insurrections, to the Fueros' of the
provinces in which they dwell. But the Basques as a nation have no
Fuero or For peculiar to themselves, not even a general one, as have
some of their provinces, like Navarre, which latter is, however, not
written in Basque, but in Spanish patois. They jkkscss no customary
Uw profoundly differing from that of neighbouring populations of
Keltic origin, which all, Ba:>quc, Bdamais and Gascon alike, liave
in common with Gauls or Kelts. This view of Jullen Vinson and

' fc-M«y L. ot Studici. Howdiffcrcnt from the cheap inodcin cyrticisio, *'The
only faiUDcy worth writing is (he hisliny ihjU cannot t#e writlco" [NitteiefntM
Cf»\tMry, 1900, p. 89J).

' Hittatre du Drott Fntm^Mt,

' Tb« dirtioci incantng? of the word " Fuem" are bwi Men io the anida
• Fucxak " In CJinmUr^i Em^ilsfaiiia.

The Gentleman s Magazine,

of Balasque' is borne out by the internal evidence of the Fors
and Fueros themselves, or which we shall have occasion to say more
hereafter.

The prime source of ancient law in the Western Pyrenean
district being Keltic or Germanic, it remains to be seen how in
process of time it got so much affected as it did by other systems of
legislation. What more natural than that the successive occupations
of the North of Spain by the Romans, the Goths, and the Moors,
left indelible footprints on the plastic customs of the Kelts, the first
invaders of all, or that in South-west France Roman institutions
in especial, and certain Norman ones likewise, forced themselves
upon the overridden people of the duchies of Aquitainc and
Guyenne? The situation of the district, cspcx:ially of many of its
valleys a clteval on the mountains, is physically just such as would
probably be occupied by the "remnant that remained" of each of
these successively conquered races. Further along the Pyrenean
chain they could not go. What fitter spot, then, could be found for
making an investigation into certain simple racial forms, in as nearly
a rudimentary state as can be found ? This, bcing]an enquiry to be
pursued upon the historical method into an archaic state of society
relatively little operated upon by sudden or outside changes, is of
the kind recommended " by Sir Henry Maine.

To begin with the Spanish side. The first thing that strikes the
student is the extreme difficulty of dealing with_^the^materials, from
which alone a correct estimate of the contents of the Fueros and of
the relative independence assured by them can be formed. There was
little literature in English having any bearing upon the Fueros
before Major Hume came upon the stage. In French the enquirer
can find nothing worth mentioning, and not even a bibliography of
Spanish books upon the ancient law of that country, in " La Grande
Encyclopedic," iub vofe Espagnc. So little, indeed, do the French
seem to know about Spain, that a learned writer like I-emoinne falls
into the enor ' of stating that the Basque provinces are practically
bdependent, and have no bishops or dioceses. "Zw cur^s" he
continues, ** svnt maUns chtz enx, ft ne soudcnt Hen du Saint

• J. Vinson, Etudes de LiHguisfiftu, p. 195. BAlakjue, StttJei sur la VUU
d* Baymntt vol. ii. p. 3a^.

• An^itnt Law, p. 89 and p. 119. Perhaps, howerer, in preference to the
use ofdocunicnls (U tfthey weie themselves authi<nlict aod Ibcicfrom rlctlucint;
coocltuiont, a better nictho^l is the eotnparabvc method, i.e. using rlociUDctiit
only OS ft meaiiK of getting at bets to be interpreted by cotnpui&oa with others,

• y^urnat <Ui DH^t, June 16, 1874.

Sources of Wesi-Pyrenean Law.

Pin" the truth being that there arc two Basque diocescsi with
priests absolutely Ultramontane.

Thus, in order to understand something about the Fueros, we
have to go almost entirely to Spanish sources, which arc difficult to
use, as modem discoveries have made of no value much of the older
literature' upon the subject. There being as yet no classification of
modern Spanish historical work, and the Fueros pronng too nume-
rous and too lengthy to be carefully read in their entirety, any attempt
to generalise upon the comparative value, and to dogmatise upon the
spirit even of each Fuero General, must be hazarded with diffidence.
Catalonia, with Barcelona as its chief centre of population, on the
extreme cast, opposite to Rousillon and Foix, lies beyond the scope
of our inquiry. All, then, that need be said of its Constitutions is
that they rendered it the most democratic of Spanish States.* We
then come to Aragon, which was also democratic, with Saragossa and
Huesca as towns, and to Aragon we shall hereafter have a little
more to say. Next we pass on to Navarre, and lastly to Guipuzcoa,
with Sl Sebastian for its chief town, and then to Biscaye by its side, of
which Bilbao is the capital, both on the sea shore. Inland lies
Alava, better known from V7toria, one of its most important
places, immediately south of the two last- mentioned Basque pro-
vinces. As far as can be generalised with any fair amount of
accuracy, the most important Spanish laws of North-wcslem Spain
are the " Fuero Real " (1^55) and the " Sieic Partidas," an adapta<
tion of the "Forum Judicum/' or "Fuero Juzgo," to a more
I advanced state of society (1256 or 1238), both which saw the light
in the time of Alphonso the Wise. Then came the " Ordenamiento '*
of the Cortes of Alcala, the work of Alphonso XI. (1348), which
latter attempted to subject local Fueros to Royal Edicts. Next in
value arc perhaps the Royal *' Ordonnanccs " of Castile, that we
owe to Ferdinand the Catholic in 1488, and the eighty-three laws of
Toro promulgated in 1505. Afterwards come the "Nueva Recopi-
lacion "(1567) and the "Novissima Recopilacion " (1805). These
various important enactments have to be read side by side with the
customary or local law (*' Dcrccho foral ") of each particular district,
the " Derecho comun " being the only branch even now which can
be considered to be contained within the four corners of a code, if

* E.g. TTie Celltcdcn de Doiuminia tditoj para la Hiit»ria dt RtpaHa^ in
iboot too volumrs, pnhlishrri by ihe Spat^Uh Royal AcAtlemy of History.

• Botet Antetiuen »ay<, p. yn,i " Majore autem pwle tunliconim utitnuf,
Gotiiicu TCTO Icgibus paadssimts ulimur, legilius quldem Rotnuui plurfbus
KiMD." Us Utagn di B^ahnm (to6S) is th« oldest exiiting cuuam.

The Gentleman s Magazine.

we except the penal law, commercial law, and civil procedure, into
which, of course, except perhaps the first, local custom does not
much enter.

Among the first laws in point of date that we know of upon
the Western Spanish versant, which have more particularly influenced
later legislation, are the " Fuero de Albedrio " (Arbitral) and that of
Sobrarve, i.t. the mountainous part of Aragon, and the "Forum
Judicum "or "Fuero Juzgo," a Visigolhic code ' that belonged more
to Castile and Aragon than to Navarre, with which latter country we
are here more particularly concerned. Each province had as a
rule a Fuero General, and each town or group of villages in it a
particular Fuero. Whenever a town was founded it was given a
Fuero in Spain, or in Bdarn or Bigorre a For ; as, for example, was
done in the case of Oloroo. This was called a " Carta de Poblacion." *
It set out the privileges granted by the Sovereign lo such persons as
would come and live in this new centre of habitation. Any case not
provided for in Navarre, either by the Fuero General or by the
particular Fuero of the town, as, for example, by thai of Jaca (1090),
was decided according to Roman law, but according to the Fuero of
Castile all through Alava. This was called lex supktoria^ and must
by no means be confounded with the Obstrvanctas and AmejoramUn-
tos which supplemented the Fuero General. In Navarre the date
of the Fuero General is said to be 1300, but it was not printed until
1686. Then came the Atntjoramiento of D. Ph^lipe de Ebreus in
1330? ^nd that of Don Carlos el Noble in 1418. The first printed
edition of the Fuero and Obsermndas of Aragon is that of 1496,'
but their actual date is, of course, much earlier. There was also a
famous Compilacion in 1549. In the Spanish Basque provinces
other than Alava there was a Fuero General, and, as we have seen,
its place was taken in Alava by the Fuero of Castile. There were,
however, many municipal Fueros granted in that province between
iiaS and 1337. In Biscaye we find several editions of a Fuero
General (i343t MS^p and 1527) besides sundry municipal Fueros;
and the same was the case in Guipuzcoa, where the date of the
Fuero General seems to be as late as the year 1690. It is necessary
to mention these details, as the condition of the inhabitants in

> II. E. Wttts, Spain, p. 145.

' Erptessions likt ihe following ire ftrand in inch documeats t— •' Pro unon
quod ibi fioqumiset populetis. Propter amorem quod vos populetU In prcdieto
culTO «1 piano." Tbe object wu '* Uevirgin&re iciram."

■ The bctt aecannt of the Fueros of Aragon it by RtEiel d« llrcu y
Smenjtca^ in th« Hivixtm df Arthh/ttt April uid Mfty 1900.

Sources of IVest-PyreneaH Law.

Guipiucoa and Biscaye was and is much more democratic than
in Alava and Navarre. The reason seems not (ar to seek. An older
civilisation bad been constantly forced backwards by fresh immigra-
tion, and could get no further than Guipuzcoa and Biscaye. Alava
was inland and a more desirable resting-place, as also was Navarre.
Therefore it is hardly to be wondered at that the Fueros of the
fonner got little from the Roman law, even through the oiedium
of the Visigoths, while those of Alava and Navarre, on the other
hand, take much irom that source.

I'he root of the Fucro General of Navarre is supposed to be the
Fuero of Sobrarbe and some other municipal Fueros of the district,
said by Moret to have been granted by Theobald I. No copy exists
of the Fuero of Sobrarbe, but Alphonso, King of Aragon and Navarre,
is allied to have given it when he conquered Tudela from the
Moors in 1117. The Fuero General of Navarre contains a strong
admixture of Visigothic customs, as well as the mark of mediscval
feudalism.' Its date is probably about 1155. The first edition
is that of t686, which leaves out such parts as the Cortes, held on
January 7 in the preceding year, considered to be evil-sounding or
indecent It is in Spanish, though not the Spanish of Castile, and
strikes the reader as remarkable in form, from being rather a narrative
than a list of commands. Its source is plainly Visigothic, acting upon
existing custom and tinged with feudalism. It shows the hand of the
priest, and recalls the Basque proverb, " Kach district has its own law,
and each family ils proper custom." In this Fuero General, which is
perhaps the most important body of laws belonging to the Western
Pyrenean section of the Spanish versant now extant, several matters of
principle at once arrest attention. Its style is almost that of a good-
humoured exhortation, divided, after the Roman method, into books,
titles and chapters. Roman influence, to put it most succinctly, is
noticeable in its treatment of women as wives or concubines, in
the institution oifiadons, i.e. fideiJussortSy and recognition of the
relationship of agnates. The husband becomes the master of his
wife's fortune, and she during marriage is more or less under his
fot4s/as. Nevertheless Germanic influences are seen in the gifts
given by husband to wife, in the warranty of her virginit>-, in the
pftxtnership in family property ordained by the Fuero, as well as in the
OEtntordinary liberality of its arrangements as to a woman's power to
contract, make a will, and enjoy a life interest in her husband's estate
tftcr his death. The universal custom of providing sureties also has

^ Ihidfviui du D*uHt De Conditiooe MuUemin (188S), p. looi

The Gentleman's Magazine,

the same origin, as well as tlie traces of Wehrgtld^ Ordalies, and right
of private vengeance that pervades its criminal law. The eifect of
feudalism is noticeable in the marked dtiTcrcncc made between
nobles and roturitrs {ruptuarii)^ and the impossibility for a noble
lady to marry out of her class. At the same time the King of
Navarre, owing to the operation of the Fucro General, was rendered
a constitutional monarch, perhaps the first in Europe, as can readily
be understood if we read carefully the five oaths taken by each king,
as given by I^rere,^ It is to be remarked that they do not appear
in Uie printed edition of this Fuero, but only in certain early MSS.
The same remark applies to the various paragraphs to be found in
the Appendix (p. 204) to *' La Contrageregonza," or " Refutacion
jocosen'a del Ensayo Histdrico-critico sobre la legislacion de Navarre.
Compuesto por D. Josd Maria Zuasnavar. En Panzucola, 1835," ao
anonymous book, perhaps by Miranda, and probably really published
at Pampeluna.

On the French versant we have chiefly to do with the Fors of
Bigorre, B»!arn, Soule, Labourt, Bayonne, and Bas Navarre, for the
Gascon Customs of St. Sever, Dax, Bordeaux, and such like scarcely
come within our horiron. Speaking geographically, Rousillon, with
Perpignan for capital, joining Foix and Andorre, the former of which
itself touches Couzerans next the mountains, and Comminges more
inland, form (he eastern lialf of the French Pyrenean region. Then
come Lcs Quatre Vall&s, witli Nelrauzan lo the north and Aslarat
or Esterac and Armagnac each still further north, bounded on the west
by Bigorre ; afterwards Bi^*am, with Chalosse to the immediate north,
and then Soule. Next comes Navarre, and lastly Labourt with its
chief town Bayonne, having Gascony to the north. The Fors of
Bigorre and its immediate neighbourhood are numerous, and include
that of Luz and Barege, of which we have Npgucs* excellent com*
mentary,^ Arrcns, Azun, Bagneres, Guizerix, Ibos, Lannemezan,
Lourdes, Maubourguct, Monifaucon, and Tarbes, with those of
Les Quatre Valli^cs as perhaps the most important. Lagrez^ in
his •' Droit dans les Pyr^n^es," not only gives a fair account of most
of these, but even the text in many cases. Of them, as a whole, it
may be safely said that they display unusual liberality, and testify lo
the mildness of the form feudalism look in Bigone. This is bome
out even by a cartulary of the Abbey of St. Savin, which has been

* Ainhtrr« FraMftUse, vol. U. p. 23,

* La CoOiume de Dar^eavM: les U«sg«s du I^yt du Lavedin, de U nlle Ae
Loucde, de \% BuroAnit dca Angles, Mjmiaiut de Bcue ct ftuttes endrolti.
Toolmue, [76a

Sourus of West'Pyretuan Lam.

preserved in ihe archives of Tarbes. The rights of women are
particularly cared for, and that of the eldest child, male or fctoalc,
to succeed to family property often recognised and enforced, as,
to give but one instance, in the custom of Barege.* Except in
Roudllon, which used to go with the countship of Barcelona and
kingdom of Aiagon, the force of the Fuero Juzgo ncvtx made itself
felt on the French side of the Pyrenees, In it arc no traces of
feudalism. It was merely a Germanic custom, modified by the
ecclesi:\siical influence of the Councils of Toledo. One great
principle which seems to run through the civil law of the French
Pyrenees is reconciliation of the rights of the individual, which were
then in an inchoate state, with those of the family, and the earlier
Uw of Rome with the absolutely feudal institution of fiefs. In pro-
cedure, again, feudalism and indi^'idual liberty were always pulling
different ways, the county courts lending to decentralisation, while
the supreme court ever attempted to correct this defect

Before considering the Old Fors of B^am, which are the most
important on the French side, as the course legislation took can be
so well traced in them by comparison with the New For of 1552, it
maybe well to mention the Custom of Bordeaux, a printed edition of
which exists, dated 1617.' This For applied also to the Sdni5»
cbauss^e de Cuyetmc and to the Pais de Bourdelois. Although
this custom in fifteen rubrics upholds feudal rights, according to it
fiefd can be divided among children without the leave of the lord^ as
well as the properly of an emphyieote. In it " le mort saisit U vi/**
while the eldest son is called chef de maison^ and his main duty seems
to be to preserie the home. But a de[>endant, if he misbehaves with
any woman belonging to his lord, loses his head sans merci ; is hung if
he steals over 50 francs' worth of goods belonging to his lord, and is
whipped twice when the property is of less value. Into the Custom
> of Saintonge, with its twenty rubrics including an interesting one upon
partnership, it is hardly necessary here to go. Its date is 1520, and
chief town St. Jean d'Angcli. There is of it a printed edition, also by
Millanges, dated 1603. He published besides (in 1617) " lyCsCous-
tumes G^nt^rales ct Pariiculicres de la Ville et Prevost^ d'Aci
(Due).'' This custom is in eighteen rubrics, and dates from I5i4<
Millanges had previously brought out, in 1603, the General and
Jx}cal Custom of the Town Prevostd and Sitge of St. Sever. This is

* \\ % qaite a mislftke to suppose that urict jnimogenilute was coofined to
Buqw-luid. See, Tor enmple, For d^Amn, Ail. 86, givea in lagi^te, Droit
4mm Ut Fyriniti^ p. 450-

* Pu SimoQ Miltanccs, Impimcot Ordinaire da Roy, Bordeaux.

The Genllemans Magazine.

in twenty-nine rubrics, and was approved in 1514 by the Parliament of
Bordeaux. Among them is an interesting rubric stating that serfs
{questaux) cannot contract or make a will, and that the lord may
lake away their goods whenever be likes.' There in also a clear
(local) article upon voisinsy which shows that at St. Sever a stmnge
woman marrying a vohin became, until she remarried, a voisine.
But neither a strange man who married a voisine^ nor any of their
children became fftfiVi'w. There was also published in eighteen rubrics
by Millanges in 1603, "Les Cousturaes Centrales gard^ et ob-
serv^es au pats et Baillage de la Bourt (L^bourt) et ressort d'iceluy."
These, too, were authorised in 15 14. We now come to the "Coft-
tumes G^ndrales du Pays et Vicomti de Soule," approved by the
Parliament of Bordeaux in 1520, which begin thus : " By a custom,
which has been kept and observed from all time, all the natives and
inhabitants of Soule are i7e& and of free condition without mark of
slavery. No war levy has nor can be made upon the inhabitants, nor
any right be demanded on the ground of the status or (pretended)
servile condition of the said inhabitants or any of them." The chaj»e
was free In Soule, and there the elder child, whether male or female,
inherited in certain families. The thirty-seven rubrics of this custom
are perhaps the most liberal of all those in the Pyrenean district, and
Bela's manuscript commentary throws light upon many peculiarities
and clears up sundry difficulties In them, as has not been done for
the other Basque customs, which, it should be observed, are none of
thera in the Basque language, and seem to have been more or lei*s
adapted to the model of the New For of B&im. In the Custom of
Soule the desire to uphold the family ts particularly conspicuous, as
well as the Germanic mther than Gallic or Roman position taken
by the women. Under the Roman system, from having been utterly
in her husband's power, as she was among the Gauls likewise, she
became in later days absolutely unfettered, and frequently in con-
sequence quite undomestic. But the mumiium or mainbour of the
Germans, which was a sort of parental or family tutelage, seems to
have hit the raiddit: course, and safeguarded the woman's condition
in all three Basque customs. This position of women stands out
particularly clear in the old Custom of Bayonne (13th centui;), os
compared with the more modem one of 1514 in twenty rubrics, aJso

* Cumpanft in his EtwU f/itt. it Jur. sur U Cettmat tt U Strea^t (Bordeaux,
18S3) well ibowK froai tlic oUCuMoai uf Bordaux (t4th ccotury) what their
pontioti th«n wai,

* Tb* oontruy wu the cna b llie Fvr 0/ Jifavam IUf»-fyrft, RoK isdr.,
An.3.

Sources of West-Pyrenean Law.

ublJshed by Miltanges, and shows the absence of the strict Roman

7rt potestas even in the case of children.

" Los Fors et Coshimas deu Royaume dc Navarre Dega-Ports "

is usually found tn the duodecimo edition of 1732, printed at Fau

by Jerome Dupoux. It was authorised in its present form by the

Parliament of Navane sitting at Pau in the year 163T. This custom

is in substance, of course, much older, and received letters patent from

Louis XIIL in 161 1. Its rubric concerning the status of individuals is

^conceived in an especially liberal spirit, granting ipso facto ihe rights of

^Woisin even to the stranger who marries the heiress of a voisin. It also

gives a special power to districts to meet and arrange their common

,lflairs. Testamentary privileges likewise are liberally accorded

'' especially in the case of acquired as opposed to ancestral property ;

but no one can contract without the leave of his curator until be

attains the age of twenty-five years.

The old Fors of B^arn are the following : " La Charte d'Oloron,"
1080; "Le For de Morlaas," not, renewed in laao; "Le For
d'Owaa," " Le For d'Aspe," " Le For de Baretous," all three in 1 2a i ;
" Le For Gdn^ral de Biarn," the latter in part probably about 1000,
and in part renewed in 1288. The only edition of these is that of
Mazure and Hatoulet {1840), taken from the one manuscript then at
the Pau archives. As there are now known to exist four manuscripts,
I text needs collation. In these Fors the /afrta pafes/as was feeble,
nd a girl at seven could be betrothed witli the consent of her guardians,
who were (if alive) her father and mother. At twelve she became of
ge,and then thc/tf/«/*w ceased. Here we have a state of things vastly
: the Roman system, while the conditions upon which a child
could be disinherited and the authority of the husband over the wife
from a Roman source. The Lex Julia de Fundo Dotali gives

the husband power, with the wife's consent, to sell biens dotaux
This law passed through the Theodosian Code into that of B(*am,
^•nd its force is perceived even in the New For of 1552, but not the
ohibition contained in the same law, viz. not to mortgage hiens
dolaux even witli consent. Probably the distinction between
alienating and mortgaging was too subtle for the jurisconsults of the
Middle Ages to grasp. The Gallic custom of the return of the dot
to the wife's family often appears,' while the prohibition to sell bien$
tufhies is to be attributed to the effect of feudalism. It is necessary
in the Pyrenean customs to state whether by primogeniturt is meant
ahsciute primc^eniture, i.e. male ot female, or maU primogeniture

ceame I

E.g. Old Vutt Rub. xxxL, Art. 6S.

The Gentlemans Magazine,

only. Male primogeniture is upheld in noble families, and in the
New I'or a father can leave even the domaine rural to one child,
as is the case in most of the Basque Fors. In this way the New For
made succession to roturier property similar to that to noble, whereas
the older ones had here previously favoured equal partition.

To conclude. The effect that barbaric, especially Germanic,
legislation has had upon the Fueros and Fors it is difficult to esti-
mate, because so much of this was itself saturated with Roman
principles of law. It is not only in the compendia to other
5>*stems, as in the case of " Les Lois de TEmpereur " and " Les
Bdnrffices " as r^ards (he Old Fors of B&irn, that Roman juris-
prudence is to be found, but it also appears welded in the system
itself, often perhaps unconsciously to the people to whom such
system belonged. For example, the principle of mttayage (cf. gazalka)
was not directly derived from the practice of Frankish and Lombard
sovereigns granting away parts of the public domain to their soldiers,
but from the gifts to the ccloni ffwrffV/arrV of earlier date.' But we may
be pretty sure that the freedom of dealing with acquired property
though not with Urre nobU granted by the Fors came from the German
practice as to Wtkrgtld ^w^ /fafius tnoncyt though their practice was
different as to AUod. Perhaps, in nothing is pure Germanic
influence more clearly seen than in the necessity for the consent of
children to any interference with their rights* to family property.
In Gains' time the patria potcstas was almost at its zenith, and yet
it little influenced those free Germans whose root idea was the
"corporate union of the family" under the Mund, Is this not to be
seen, too, in the language of almost every chart in the Pyrenees?
" I Gaston grant, and I Talese his wife confirm, and I Centulle their
son likewise confirm " ' were the words of the grant of a For to
Morlaas. The favour shown a widow is also of Germanic origin,* as
is Esdiif, or the right of the accused to clear himself by his own
oath and that oi conjuraiores.^ These and many more like customs,
such as great length of prescription, attributable to the Church*s
influence, are to be clearly seen in the Fors, with which the Romans
had nothing directly to do, contrary, however, to the opinion of the
learned Marca,*

' Maine, Ancunt Zme, p. 301. But the system itself was much earlier.

• For <le Morlau, Rab. xxxi.. Aits. 71 utd 75. ud Rub. sUx., AiL (7S.

• Muca's ffist. 9/£/am, p. 336.

' Lafcrricrc, Ef^ut Ctliiqut^ ii, 66.
' 5f irai'i Hist. 0/ B^rm, p. 891.

• o: tit., p. 344.

Sources of IVest-Pyrcnean

The large extent of ground that it has l>een ncccssjir>' to cover
has of necessity made this study somewhat slight. ]( shows, how-
cTcr, how far-reaching was the effect of the earlier Roman law
throughout the Pyrenees, trAnsccnding as it did purely Keltic or
aanic customSi and also the living influence of feudalism.
• joint effect vras beneficial, and, if the Church's iiifluciice hod
en less upon the Spanish vcrsant, culminating as vrc 5nd il in
the introduction of the Inquisition, with the general use of Torture
and other attendant horrors, the condition of this district in the
Middle Ages would upon the whole compare favourably with that of
any other. The inliabilants, if poor, were for the most part free, and
had privileges which enabled them to live better than the peasant
elsewhere. For the Pyrcncan proprietor, tliough no dominus ttrrtt
Jaiiidmus^ was yet often in good sooth satis beatus untm Sabinis,

ADDITIONAL NOTES.

Perhaps the most useful book on enrly Pyrcnean Spanish law is
" Historiadelderecho en Caialuna, Mallorcay Valuncia, Codigodc los
Costumbras de Tortosa, por el D, S. O. Bienvenido Oliver." 4 vols.
Svo. Madrid,ed. 1876-1881 (MigueIGenesta,cal!cdeCampomanes8).
There are also subsequent volumes. His view is llwt the chief
sources of Pyrcncan law are (i) Pirrnaica, costumbras y tradiciones
Vascas, de Bigorre, Valle dc Aran, Pcrpignan y Aragon.

(2) Catalufia^ Los Le}'es Visigodas, Los Usatgcs Costumbras de
Barcelona, Lcrida, Mallorca y Valencia.

(3) Gothica, Germanic from the North.

(4) JRamana, Western Roman Law. Justinian or Komano*
Byzantine not being known in the Pyrenees till the twelfth century.

(5) Eccicneutka or Canonica.

(6) Municipia, as Dcrtossa (now Tolosa) which rounicipia Of
colonia all modelled on Roman law, yet preser%'cd their own
laws and customs. See Aulus Gellius. Noctes Attica:, Lib. XVI.
CI 3, Paris, 1847. Hadnanusmiran'seostenditquodctipBiltaliccnscSr
ct quxdamitem alia munJcipia antiqua in quibus Hltiosenses nominate
cum suis morihus legil>u«jue uli possent in jus coloniarum mutarc
gesdverint This author also quotes with approval front 1 .aferrihc,
"Histoirede Droit Fran^ais," tomciL 37 — "There are three national
types which hare been well conserved : Ei Euskaro 0 f^<rj('<T (Basque)
in the West, <*/ Idero-La/ino, which predominates in Beam, Bigorre,
CoaUDiogcsv and Foix, and <l Visile or Idero-GtrmanUo^ itU\cU Vk

■■

H^^^^^^^H

The Genilemaits Magazine.

rved in RousiUon and Catalonia." Further he says that
1 legislation there is some Roman element.

the effect of Roman law in Aquitania (Guyenne) the
uable book is " Rerum Aquitaniarum libri quinque,
D. Alteserra," Tolosa, 1648. The gist of it is that in

land was allodial ; that there the Roman law persisted,
nrrently with it ran older and other customs : " Legum
iva non est vilis auctoritas, sed non adeo valent ut usum
t mores (p. 226)." He treats the curiae of Aquitanian
"avitae Ubertatis reliquiae" (p. 183). Cf. Maine, "Ancient
joa. In the union of the country of Toulouse and of all
with France, it was stipulated " ut jus commune iUabaium
" (p. ao4).

A. Rn WHITEWAV.

■

•

IVHEN LONDON LIGHTS THE SKY.

" 'T^WENTY-six miles, four furlongs out from Tyburn Turnpike

X OD the great road to Birmingham you reach a small town
of 399 houses and 1,963 inhabitants. Post-horses can be supplied at
the King's Arras. Here is a receiving house, and the mails anive at
3 o'clock in the morning, leaving again at 10 at night."

So runs a record of the year 18 19, and anyone electing to make
the journey to London by the above 10 o'clock mail would travel
through the night by way of Boxmoor and Watford over Bushey
Heath to Stanmore, and passing toll-gates at Edgware and Kilbum,
would arrive in the small hours of the morning at the spot where
the Marble Arch will soon cease to be.

At the above small town, now increased sixfold, I lately arrived
by train two hours after dark on a black November night, when the
warm still air dense with moisture was condensing into a universal
pitiless drizzle. The dark and lonely roadway into the town was
aiterly deserted, and, all objects being shrouded in gloom, it suited
my humour to mentally put myself back in time and try to imagine
that for all tliat could be seen or heard it still might be eighty years
igo. But this idea was by one small circumstance rudely dispelled.
Far away in the S.E. was a broad red glow, faint but steady, and
stretching skyward. Ixmdon lay over there, and it was impossible
thai her light could have been seen as now two or three generations
«go.

I returned to the same spot with an old resident, who noted
nothing unusual in the spectacle, and, as merely stating a well-attested
tact, said, " When London lights the sky like thai we look for stormy
weather." I enquired if the light were never seen in the dry east
winds of spring, to which my informant replied that " tf so it nas at
iny rate a different kind of light from what we then saw."

^VhOe he was speaking there was a sudden shriek, and round the
£ar corner the down express dashed into sight at some fifty miles an
hour Qying against the wind. To us the actual train was invisible,
oftly the under side of a rolling fiery trail was seen, which lengthened

I T TM^ iTTl^i^^-^*^' '-' - '"'^^

The GentlemayCs Magazine,

out and again shortened as, with altering perspective, the engine
passed and sped away in the distance. Then, when some half-mile
from us, the glare of its furnace was caught anew in a long lurid
streak thrown backward high in the sky, doubtless reflected off the
moist cloud which, issuing from the funnel, had now escaped into
upper air. In this incident of the train I had sufficient proof, if such
were needed, that the distant glow to the S.E. was but the light of
I^ondon's million lamps reflected from watery haze condensed out of
the motsture-ladc:n air.

Herein was in truth the verification of an old weather sign. It
is said at Chiswick — which, it should be observed, lies to the W.S.W.
of London and only seven miles from Charing Cross, that when the
lights from the distant streets are seen in the sky rain may be ex-
pected next day. And other versions of the same weather-saw may
be found elsewhere. In the same way again the watermen at Dover
declare that when Calais lights up the night sky then wind is coming,
and wind and rain arc but synonymous terms in those jaws of the
Channel through which cyclonic disturbances are for ever struggling.
It is seldom realised, save by aeronauts and mountaineers, how
much watery haze the lower air contains. Blue sky itself is but the
ultimate fading out of haze, and when lower layers of the atmosphere
are surmounted the blue above is bluer than before only by reason
of the haze there being more attenuated. The result of the most
recent investigations carried out chiefly by high-flying kites goes to
show that though at great heights the air may be spoken of as dry,
this is but a relative term. Commonly about one-half of the water
vapour in the air is left below by the time the first mile and a half is
climbed ; but the actual moisture present varies with circumstances.
Thus up to a few thousand feet the air is drier during winter and at
night and damper during summer and by day, than it is near the
grotmd.

In the light of these iacts it becomes easy to conceive how in
certain conditions of moist weather and on a dark night the light of
a large town reflected in the heaven may be seen even at a long
distance. Under the clear skies of other lands reflection may be
seen on the under surface of a cloud over great ranges ; thus the
cloud-heaps over thunderstorms on the American prairies may
sometimes be seen at night on the horizon at a distance amounting
to some aoo miles. Again, it will be easy to grasp the further fact
that haK in the air is more cleariy manifested to the observer who,
whether in a balloon or on a mountain side, has climbed above its
lower moister levels. Here the explanation is] simply that from his

IFAfn London Lights the Sky.

new point of view the haze is seen against the dark carlb white bdng
itself illumtiuted by the light from the sky above.

An interesting speculation will find place here as to the appearance
which our earth would present to an observer removed entirely out-
side her limits— say to an inlubitant on ^Ll^s. It will almost seem
that as a telescopic object our planet must sadly lack clear definition.
The abundance of cloud alone would bring this about, but even
where clouds were not there would still be the entire depth of the
moisture in the atmosphere to blur, in the way we have been con-
sidering, the outline of seas and continents which we are in the
habit of picturing as so clearly defined.

Perhaps few facts are more strikii^ than the actual statement in
figures of what the presence in the air of mere moisture amounts to.
In actual quantity it is altogether inconsiderable, being less tlian one-
half per cent. But its physical effect is astounding. Experiment
shows that the quantity of aqueous vapour contained in the atmo-
sphere, minute as it is, nevertheless absorbs more than seventy times
the amount of radiant heat absorbed by the air itself.

But an intensely interesting question is opened up by the con-
sideration that the vault of heaven may be lit up by light reflected
from quite another source, and one which so far has only been hinted
at. If distant London can light the sky with a glow of another
type when dry east winds are blowing, then we must suppose tliat
■ the reflecting particles in this case are not moisture but rather dust
—dust carried far aloft from off the face of a broad continent and
held captive in the upper air. There are various ways of conceiving
how so vast a cloud canopy can be lifted into space off the arid
plains — the mere columns of warmer air rising off heated earth
surfaces may suffice to bear upwards clouds of impalpable dust,
just as they carry far into the sky light floating seeds that will not
infrequently soar upwards past a lofty balloon. Or again the cause
may be found in the eddying movements of air with which we are
so familiar, and which on a large scale are spoken of as cyclones.
These are known to be capable of whirling dust particles into the
atmosphere up to very considerable heights.

Naturally it must be only the finest particles that can be carried
Hx aloft and remain long suspended in the thinner air. But in real
fact such finely divided dust is being perpetually created by commo-
tion great or small constantly going on on the earth. Let me give-
an illustratioa

There is among the familiar "animated pictures" exhibited by
the Rjnematograph a well-known representation of the thtcnrat%
VOL. ccxci. NO. 2047. \i

The GeniiematCs Magazine.

down of a condemned tall chimney-sUck. The picture shows a
lai^c portion of one side of the base of the chimney removed and
replaced temporarily with timber struu. Then a fierce burning fire
is kindled around these props and the work of demolition is watched
from a safe distance. In due time, the fiames having done their
work, the lofty stack inclines slightly from the perpendicular, and
then, as one entire whole, falls with a mighty sweep to earth. But
while we watch the picture perhaps what strikes us most is the
silence of the catastrophe. The fall is so realistic and so apparently
near, that tlie crash impresses us by its absence. In actual fact the
result of the falling mass would be terrific. Its sudden arrest
would mean its conversion into heat and into violent vibrations of
the air producing sound. But as such results do not appeal to the
eye the impression for a moment is that the *' moving picture " can
teli nothing of the after effects of the great impact. And yet if
closely watched it docs. Over the fallen ruins there immediately
bangs a small white cloud, shortly vanishing into clear air.

This it may be said is but a trinal consequence of such large
commotion, and yet in a sense this too will be hardly a correct
statement. The amount of impalpable di^bris consigned to the
air is indeed relatively small, but its effects may be almost inconceiv-
ably great and far-reaching. Professor Tyndall brought out this
fact by exhaustive investigations, showing that it is matter in the air
which chiefly inBuences its power to transmit radiant heat. Dealing
witli one of his experiments he asserts that " an amount of impurity
loo small to be seen by the eye is sufficient to augment fiflyfold
the action of the air."

We have certain means of examining and testing the actual dust*
motes that hang above us. The readiest of these are perhaps the
showers of rain which wash the sky, or the flakes of snow which,
slowly falling, carry down the dust from great heights. By these
agents careful and accurate analyses have been made limes out of
number of the dust which has gone heavenwards, and which has
proved to be organic as well as inorganic ; but to deal adequately
with the results obtained would need a separate article.

We have, however, to recognise that by no means all the dust
has come from below. Some, and not a little, hails from no man
knows where, except that it nmsl be from the void of space. Thia,
it may be supposed to have come from other worlds destroyed, or,
if we like to think it, from worlds that were never formed. There
is not only no doubt of this, but there have been very plausible
calculations made as to the actual amoont of cosmic debris thai

IV^n London Lights the Sky.

from this source alone comes into our atmosphere. Thus one of out
greatest authorities has arrived at the conclusion that it is approxi-
mately not greatly less than one hundred tons or greatly more than
one thousand tons in the course of every day. This quantity, large
in the abstract, may appear after all to be relatively smalt^ and we
have to look to our own earth and the forces which reside within it
as the main source from which our great dust atmosphere, as we
must regard it, comes.

And in truth the air does comprise a great dust atmosphere all
its own. This has been made patent to alt scientific explorers of the
air. But results become far more remarkable and instructive when
gathered far away from tlie reach of land. As one example of such
a result we may cite that obtained by Professor Piazzi Smyth, whose
observing station was the lofty peak of TenerifTe, standing far out in
mid'Ocean. Tliis accurate observer records IiavJng seen, from high
Up the mountain, strata of dust rising to an altitude of over a mile,
and extending to the limits of the visible horizon ; sometimes, more-
over, so dense as to hide the neighbouring island mountain, the peak
alone of which was seen standing out of what was virtually a dust
ocean. Perhaps it is not altogeihcr a welcome thought and yet one
that we must recognise, that e\'en in our proverbially purest air —
that which lies over the broad ocean — there is to be found this
enormous admixture of what we have to regard simply as foreign
matter.

Some few facts might find a place here, which, though admitting
of no real question, seem almost to belong to the world of romance.
When Chicago was burned io 1871 the mere smoke that arose was
perceived as far away as the Pacific coast, or, in other words, from
2,ooo miles away particles of soot were seen floating in the air, and
if this meajis that they had risen fairly above the horizon, then firoro
considerations of the mete curvature of the earth we have to conceive
that these particles were l}'ing in a dense mass at several miles above
the earth's surface.

But a fiercer fire went heavenward in 1883 when near the corner
of Sumatra the volcanic mountain of Krakatoa broke into eruption.
The story of the result of this came in from almost all over the world.
Fine dust — so fine that it took many months to subside — seems to
have spread the globe round in a direction opposed to lower prevail-
ing winds. In the tropics the air became so laden with this dust
that the sun grew blue, and then green as it sank towards the horizon.
In England similar phenomena were observed differing only in
intensity, while the afterglow assumed such abnormal vividness as

xoo

The Genllemans Magazifte.

to penetrate and colour a winter's fog. More than this, in the towns
the fogs during this period grew crimson when lit merely by street
gaslight. Neither was this the end of the wonder. At night-time
there were seen for a lengthened period, but gradually fading, what
were spoken of as " luminous douds," which were doubtless but
another evidence of the same dust floating at a height estimated at
at least sixty miles.

The story of Krakatoa is no isolated one. The Loess or loamy
dust of China has been pretty certainly proved to have been borne
aloft and carried at least a quarter round the globe, having been
found floating as a permanent dust atmosphere above the highest
mountains of California.

Again, in 1880 Mr. Whymper watched an eruption of Cotopaxi
sixty-five miles away. On that occasion an uprush of inky smoke
towered into the air, and then was borne away horizontally, c^'entually
after several hours i>assing in front of the sun, which thereupon
assumed a green tint, different from any that the observer bad ever
witnessed in the heavens.

Having then no uncertain information of what the sky may be
trusted to reveal respecting the matter it holds within it at varying
levels up to an unlimited height, we are justified in devoting the
most careful attention to all such lessons as it con teach us. What
the light of a distant town tells us we have already discussed, but
another light, that of the sun, hangs below the horizon twice in each
day, and this almost constantly lias its message — sometimes in the
mddy sundown, revealing only the presence of high clouds in a
dry atmosphere ; sometimes in the yellower sunset tints that as a
rule give warning of wind; again in the dawn when ruddy light
will usually be reflected by denser clouds which have been settling
through the night, and which betray vapour already gathering for
precipitation and rain.

These arc only generalisations, but the light and colouring in the
sky afford indications which are manifold, and in which every
intelligent observer will learn to seek many of his surest tokens.

JOHN M. BACON.

•.:- : A<>c\: ^' \ -:•: : } i '-:••'

" WORDS, WORDS, MERE WORDS, NO
MATTER FROM THE HEART"

WHERE go all the words that are spoken,
Words that are spoken every day ?
Vows of constancy, secrets broken,

Heedless words that men lightly say ?
Words compelling, that all obey,

Bitter words with a poison sting,
Farewell words, of life's woe the token,
Words beseeching, and words that sing ?

Far away through the desert places

Fly the words when their work is done ;
Fast they fly through the wind-swept spaces

Where no moon is, where shines no sun :
Words that are spoken, evety one,

Bright with joyance, or dim with woe,
Fly and leave of their flight no traces

More than leaves in the air the snow.

In the silence resounds their story,

*' Strong our calling and keen our cry.
Whether we tell of grief or glory.

Kings that triumph or slaves that die I
At our bidding men smile or sigh.

Falsehood, treasure and truth forget
Youth glad-hearted and Wisdom hoary

We ensnare in our star-gemmed net ! "

M^ords I ye are treacherous, fleeting, hollow :
Thought ye baflle, and Hope ye bind,

(Circling swift as the light-winged swallow,
Clouds before you and mists behind.)

Eyes of vision ye fain T^rould Hind,
Joy would tear from the storm-tossed heart:

Doubt and dread in your footsteps foHow,
Trust to torture and souls to part

Words, how bootless are rhyme and reason

All your pitiless power to prove ! —
So the wind in the frost-bound season

Waves of the ice-locked mere should move. —
But, one conquers you — even Love !

In Love's Kingdom abased ye fall \
Love can laugh at your guileful (reason :

Love needs never a word at all.

DORA UlWE.

•

TABLE TALK.

Mr. Baildon's "Robert Louis Stevenson."

THOSE whom my recent observations concerning Stevenson
in Southern Seas may have interested I venture once more to
address, in order to commend to their attention the life-study of the man
by Mr. H. Bellyse Baildon.' Being got up uniform with the principal
works of Stevenson, this work stands a good chance of 6nding a
place in every Stevensonian collection. To such a distinction it is
entitled by its own intrinsic merits. A school-friend of Stevenson,
Mr. Baildon preserves some interesting particulars of his early life. In

' later yeare the intimacy, as must almost of necessity be the case when
a man chooses, as did Stevenson, for his dwelling-place spots so remote
as the islands of the Southern Seas, was confined to correspondence.
The work of Mr. Baildon is accordingly less interesting from the

y personal revelations it furnishes than from that of critical estimate. To
those — if any arc so unhappy — who are debarred from access to
Stevenson's works, this study of them will stand as the best available
substitute. A couple of admirably executed portraits add to the
attractions of a volume which the student of Stevenson will hasten
to possess. I have only one faint of alteration to make. When

■ Robert Bums speaks of the exhilarating influence of " a pint," it

kmight be worth while to inform the "Southron" reader that a
sh pint is the equivalent of two Saxon quarts. I own, however,

kthai it is not in the least Mr. Baildon's duty, even though it might

Ibe bis privilege, to enlighten English ignorance.

WlLD-BlRD PROTECTION-

IHAVE more than once drawn attention to the fact that bird life
is more abundant in or near London than it was a few years
|aga My observation is confined to what can be seen or heard from
' study windows, or observed during a prowl through the fields and
I Uses that environ Hampstead and Highgate. I am delighted,

' Quito & Wtodiu.

104

The Gtntitmafts Magazine.

however, to leam from genuine woodlanders that the results of wild-
bird protection are becoming manifest. Writing in the Cornhili
Magazine, Mr. C J. Cornish gives some eminently gratifying infor-
mation on the subject. On a particular spot with which he is
concerned Mr. Cornish says : " There are now some five or six
hundred pairs of terns, lesser terns, shore curlews, redshanks, and
peewits nesting where ten years ago there were not one-sixth of the
number." From various quarters comes the information that many
varieties of birds, including, in Northumberland, flycatchers and
woodj)eckers, "flourish exceedingly." One discouraging faa re-
mains, that " goldtinches and linnets arc, in some districts, almost
exterminated by bird-catchers, and the mountain linnet or twite has
become rare'* in Cumberland. The loss of these birds of sweetest
song is much to be deplored. As a rule the districts are richest in
bird life wherein the great landed proprietors co-operate with County
Councils or with other administratois of the Wild-Bird I'reservation
-\cis. On the whole, then, considering how far from adequate is the
legislation that has been passed, and how grave and numerous are the
difHculties in the way of its administration, the reports I now read
are encouraging.

Sea Birds the Fisherman's Friends.

TO one curious fact, very encouraging to those who seek to
protect bird life, Mr. Comisli draws attention. The entire
race of sea-gulls is now, he says, under the special protection
of the fishermen of the coast of South Devon. The explana-
tion of this is as follows : " Four winters ago two large
ships, passing up Channel in a dense fog, were warned of their
approach to the rocks by the incessant calling of the sea-fowl, which
had greatly increased in numbers and tameness since they had been
protected by the Devonshire County Council" No longer afraid of
man, the birds flocked to the ships in search of food, and so gave
warning of the nearness of the rock-bound coasts. Those accord-
ingly who shoot sea birds are regarded in Devon as no friends to
the fisherman. The birds themselves preach the lesson of their
own defence. This recalls the moral of Coleridge's "Ancient
Mariner."

SVLVANUS L'RBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

August 1901,

THE TIVELVE SIGNS,

By W. B. Wallace.

No. 3 Charlotte Square.

WITHOUT doubt Bloomsbury is a region of "restful quiet,"
as the owners of certain private hotels in that favoured
locality, with a pleasing absence of the usual mendacity of the
Lvanserai, proudly and exultingly term it in their advatisements.
: eternal but muifled roar of the great city, so near and yet so far,
ather enhances tlian detracts from the tranquil enjoyment of its
staid inhabitants. The mighty ocean of life surges and chafes
around them, it is true, but only its peaceful ripples reach their
island shores, and from their secure havens ihey look forth with
Lucretian complacency — not unmingled, let us hope, with pity —
upon those who are toiling and moiling and occasionally making
shipwreck in the boiling maelstrom of London. This blissful retreat
seems lo be at once hallowed and ennobled by the imposing presence
of the British Museum. It is as though Pallas Athene, patroness of
learning and tutelary divinity of the great army of struggling authors
penniless students who daily resort with the zeal of Avicenna to
' great Palace of Books, had spread her sgis over the place, and
transformed it into the best imitation possible in a busy metropolis
those classic shades once so dear to her heart— the groves of
adcmus. Nor arc the dwellers in Bloomsbury unworthy of their
environment, for they are, or have been, as a rule, ialelVtcX\»\

TOU OCXCL Ha M48. \

^mm

io6

The GentUntati 5 Magazine^

vrorking-bees of the great London hive — artists, literary men, retired
merchants, and members of the learned professions.

Charlotte Square is in tlie heart of Bloomsbury, and a very
typical portion of it. It is a small inclosure, scarcely perhaps repre-
senting with mathematical accuracy, the 6gurc denoted by its nam^
and boasting a few formal scats, a few formal flower beds, and a few
equally formal gravel paths, converging upon a fountain, insignificant
and of a debased style of art, in the centre of the pleasance. This
metropolitan Eden is surrounded by tail, solemn, respectable red-
brick houses, whose one attempt at originality or eccentricity is
displayed in their hall doors, the {lanels of which are ablaze with
gilding and the most crude, glaring, and incongruous colours.
Every man, it is said, is insane on one point, and the dictum must
be extended to houses ; for the most prim and demure dwellings
sometimes irretrievably forfeit their character for sanity and sobriety
by one outrageous freak— one damning flaw— one unpardonable
violation of that good taste whose laws men and mansions must obey.
But notwithstanding the azure here, the ochre there, and the
-vermilion elsewhere, all picked out with gold, which adorned and
beautified^or the reverse — its presumably hospitable |)ortals,
Charlotte Square at the time of which we write might very fairly
have been considered, taking it on the whole, the pink of propriety,
had it not been for the fatal delinquencies of No. 3. This house
was an insult, an anachronism, a plague spot, a reflection upon the
morals and respectability, not alone of Charlotte Square, but of alt
Bloomsbur)'. It was as though some fell Bohemian magician, at
war with the decencies and conventionalities of modern life, had
transported it from the realms of Comus and set it down in the
midst of a quiet, law-abiding neighbourhood, there to be a perennial
scandal and rock of offence to the inhabitants.

And yet No. 3 had not always been cursed with this ^\\\ reputa-
tion. Its fortunes, in fact, were not dissimilar to those of Foe's
<■ Haunted Pabce." In the time of its former owner, Mr. Obadiab
Dcncb, no finger in Bloomsburj- could have pointed at it, whether
in derision or disapprobation. The old Indian merchant, who liad
been a trusted agent of Warren Hastings in his extremely question-
able dealings with the Trinccsscs of Oudc, had shaken the pagoda-lrce
— such things were possible in the days of John Company— to some
purpose ; the glittering fruit had come down upon him in golden
showers, J la Jupiter and Danac ; and when he returned to England,
liis yellow face, although not his fortune, was commonly regarded as
jjrrabolical of it— so suggestive in tlwsc days was Indian jaundice

The Twelve Signs,

107

of Indian gold He had married in Calcutta an extremely wealthy
Eurasian heiress, and the fruit of their union bad been one son, who,
in deference to some unexplained ancestral pcmhant for the eupho-
nious names of the Hebrew Minor Prophets, had been christened
Amos. When Mr. Dench returned to England he was a widower,
and was accoropacicd by this son, tben a boy of ten years. Thanks
to his own accumulations and his wife's fortune, he was possessed of
princely wealth, which he promptly proceeded to augment by pri-
valely embarking in the lucrative but nefarious career of a London
usurer. As far as externals went, howe\-er, nobody could find fault
with him. His residence in Charlotte Square rigidly conformed to
the orthodox traditions of his surroundings. It was, in (act, Poc's
Palace in its first stage, minus iLs gracious shapes and joyous music;
for gloomy, taciturn, preoccupied, and misanthropic, Mr. Dench,
although a stickler for the decencies and proprieties of life, neither
saw nor went into company ; while his household was limited indeed,
consisting only of his son. a younger brother, Captain Joel Dench, late
of the H.E.I.C.S., and two rather ancient handmaidens. The only
visitors who came to the door of the great Bloomsbury mansion were
proposing borrowers and certain lawny Indians and Cingalese, whose
business none could tell.

For fifteen years the routine of existence had never varied an ioia
Obadiah Dench played his sordid role of Ilarpagon to such per-
fection that, although nobody had any precise idea what he was worth,
it was rumoured that he had more than quadrupled the wealth be
had brought back with him from India. The Captain, who was a
profound scientist and a confirmed old bachelor, read, wrote, and
worked out problems, as he had done on many a lonely day when he
was stationed in the sacred but turbulent city of Benares; while
Amos, a long, loose, flabby youth, with dull leaden eye and hanging
underjaw, as yet an unknown and negligible quantity, spent his time
in indolence, studying with scr\ile adulation his father's every whim,
and nursing within him the seeds of hypocrisy, cruelty, treachery, and
profligacy, ready to spring up and flourish and bear fruit when the
sun of occasion should arise. For it is a curious fact that although
both are Aiyans— members of the great Indo Germanic family — the
offspring of an English father and an Indian or Eurasian mother
rarely tunis out, from an anthropological point of view, an unqualified
success.

Indian suns and the glaring desert sands had played havoc with
Obadiah Dencb's eyes, and his hearing had become sadly defective.
It ts obrious that men labouring under such disabilities should avQid

io8

The Gentieman's Magazine.

London thoroughfares and London crossings as they would the
plague, the cholera, or the inSuenza ; it is equally obvious to the
cynic of the street and the protective policeman that these are pre-
cisely the persons who are the most daring and foolhardy of pedes-
trians. And so one fine day this old hound of Ptutus, keen on tho
scent of lucre, but oblivious of all else, was knocked down and lost
his life beneath the wheels of a hansom.

His brother did not miss him, for there had never been any sym-
pathy between Ihcm ; and his son, far from missing him, secretly
rejoiced at the dawn of the day of liberty —or licence. It was a case
of 7W^« estmort : vivt Caligule. Amos Dench was five-and-twcnty,
and the lamp of his youth, which had long been hidden beneath the
bushel of a slavish and despicable fear, was promptly taken forth from
its concealment and placed upon a shameless pedestal, where it flamed
and flared to the four winds of heaven, casting a lurid radiance
athwart the night, and attracting to itself dire shapes, moths with
■human heads and faces and harpy-claws, creatures of the outer and
fetid darkness of the London streets. Under the new r^giftte No. 3
•Charlotte Square rapidly fell from its high estate ; the second stage in
the history of Poe's " Haunted Palace " was soon reached

The order of the day was as stereotyped now— only afler a very
different fashion— as it bad been during the life of Obadiah. Every
morning the staid and elderly cook and the equally elderly and stilt
primmer housemaid — why they lingered on in such a sink of iniquity
was a puzzle to the neighbours— were exposed to the incursions of
chefs, waiters, confectioners, florists, market gardeners, and others,
who came to slay. The first care of a contingent of these gentry was
to clear away from the vast dining-room the visible signs and tokens
of the preceding night's debauch, such as the dibris of the banquet
— empty bottles, broken Stvrcs and other costly ware, stained and
withered orchids, lilies, camellias, and gardenias— with all or most of
which the carpet was invariably covered. Then the kitchens were
requisitioned, and all day long preparations were there made, regard-
less of expense, for a new feast of Camacho at night, or rather in the
early morning, Amos and his guests waited on themselves — such
was his fad— and the viands were cold ; but all the delicacies of the
season, all the rarities that the most lavish outlay could secure, were
there; and when the various artistes had completed tlicir labours, the
banqucting-room seemed transformed for the nonce from something
worse than a tap-room into a veritable Elysium, bright with resplend-
ent plate and blooming exotics as redolent of mingled perfumes as
ihc j^ardens of Gulbtan, while the gorgeous t^t emembU was bathed

The Twelve Signs^

109

in ihe chastened rndiancc of colossal shaded standard lamps. Amos,
who slumbered through the day like a second Mycerinus, would then
put in an appearance, sur^'cy and approve the work of his ministering
genii, and subsequently fare forth in the dark into the worst quarters
of the town in quest of guests.

" Tell me what a man reads, and I can lell you what he is," says
some superior and sapient Individual. It was perhaps due to the
Asiatic strain in his blood that the only works which Amos had per-
used with anything like interest during his long minority had been
stories of imagination, pure and simple — the wilder and more extrava-
gant, the better. His chief favourites had been the "Arabian Nights,"
the "Persian and Turkish Talcs," the "Tales of the Genii," the marvel*
lous " History of Maugraby," and the gloomy but magnificent
" Vathek." This fantastic course of reading had wrought as power-
fully upon his mind, at once feeble and presumptuous, as, we are told,
" Amadis de Gaul " and other mediaeval romajices did upon the crazy
wits of that ingenious Iberian gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha.
When therefore, at his faiher's death, he came into possession of
what he deemed incjdiaustible wealth, he determined, like the worthy
Hidalgo of Cervantes, to transfer the wondrous adventures which be
delighted to read into real life— his own life, with himself as their
bero. Henceforth London, forsooth, must be his Bagdad, the
Thames his Tigris, and he, Amos Dench, a modem Haroun
Alraschid.

His uncle never interfered with him ; nor indeed would he have
permitted him to do so had be been so incline<L Captain Dench^
contemptuously tolerated by his nephew, continued to occupy his
suite of apartments as heretofore, although under sadly-altered con-
ditions. Often and often, in the smalt hours, when this modem
Archimedes was engaged in some abstmse calculation, a string of
cabs, laden with the Circes of Piccadilly and the Haymarkct, and
their male companions, would rattle up to the door, to the intense
disgust of adjoining peaceful households, and dtsgoige their riotous
occupants, who, under the auspices of Amos as Master of the Revels,
would then commence the agreeable process commonly called
"making a night of it." But the military sage possessed two valuable
phylacteries : imperturbable sang-frei'd, and an unrivalled power of
abstraction. The popping of champagne corks, floating fragments of
ribald songs, shrieks of ma;nad laughter, accentuated by masculine
imprecations, the crash of shattered glasses— ;iU these things soon
became to him as much part and parcel of his natural and accustomed
atmosphere as the cries of the wounded and i.hc d^\^%, vVit ^\tv ^A

The Gentleman s Magazim*

catapult and balUsta, and the various discords of a besi^ed city
were 10 the philosopher of Syracuse with whom we have compared
him.

II.

The Treasure,

Captaim Dekch was not so much a man as a calculating machine,
lie was as cold and passionless as Euclid the geometrician — whom
one can never somehow picture to himself as a family man — was or
ought to have been. His tall and meagre figure, his high and polished
cranium, his parchment face, eagle nose, and sunken eyes were of the
earth, but his spirit dwelt in a mathematical Nir\'ana of its own,
where A' was no longer an unknown quantity ; where sine jostled cosine,
and tangent cotangent ; where conic sections, differential calculus,
algebraic formulae, and all the my&iic entities of science were domi-
ciled citizens, and met and associated with him on equal and friendly
terms. We must not deny him the possession of a heart in the
physiological sense of the word, but being, as he was, little more than
a mathematical abstmction, it would have been a gross mistake to
credit him with that sensibility with which, by a confusion of ideas,
the important internal organ in question has come to be synonymous.
He was simply a man without vices and without virtues, cold,
pitiless, rigid, and impartial as Fate herself, neither loving nor hating
anything or anyone on earth. Perhaps the latter part of the pro-
position admits of qualification, for he felt something as nearly akin
to hatred as was possible for such a nature as his for anything that
interfered with or drew him away from his favourite pursuits.

At the commencement of his mad career Amos had flippantly
delegated to him the charge of all financial matters, and he had
accepted the responsibility, believing that he owed his nephew some
return for his free quarters. These affairs were his great bug-bear ;
and yet, for the reason we have stated, he went through the distasteful
routine as diligently and faithfully as if the eye of Astra^a herself had
been bent upon him all the while, although he inly rejoiced when the
hateful task was for the time completed.

At the end of three years, however, of wanton waste and extrava-
gance probably unparalleled since the days of Nero and bis Golden
House the Captain found that bis office as steward and accountant
was soon likely to become a sinecure. .'Vmos had scattered gold *»
prodigally as the Eastern princes of romance in their bridal proce**
sioM— scattered it with both hands ; and now the enormous wealth

T&£ Txvelvt Si^us,

III

amassed m bade ind cxtocted b; npiot j, aadN', and vsbj was

almost exhsosted.

It «ss a NoTcmber aftemoao, and ■faw^m^ not "w'««g^ vJA
fog. was &st dofiiiig m opoa OaiWlf Sqaaie. The miuisteky

genii, hariog placed the banquet for iht night ia resdioess, bad tiken
dteir depaiture; siknoe reaped is the boose; and CafXaio Dcocb
was seated in his deceased brother's stodjr, with Tarioos saaD pOcs of '
docJceted papers, bills, account books, and memcvanda on the tabLe
before him. His acute mind bad just socceeded in erolTiz^ order
out of chaos, and he had condusiTriy demonstrated to himself that
hi3 nephew — who at that moment was wending his way to his usual
unsaroury haunts — was verily and Indeed, in a pecuniary senses
" upon his last le^.**

** Another monih," soliloquised the Captain, with a grim attempt
at humour, " at the present rate of expenditure, and Amosi, the inc-
ducible surd, the decidedly inational quantity, becomes, in defiance
of all mathematical law, equivalent to zerO| and may be eliminated
fcom alt monetary calculali(xis."

The nearest approach to a smile that it had ever Vnon-n crossed
the Captain's yellow %*isage:. It was not caused by any sense of
rejoicing at the coming discomfiture of Amos, but partly by his own
rather laboured witticism, and partly by the consoling thought that
the hour of final deliverance from the Egyptian bondage, as he con-
sidered it, of his stewardship was fast approaching.

" I must inform Amos this very night of the state of his aOairs,"
he muttered. " It would be mistaken kindness to permit him to live
on in a fool's paradise. If there be any good in the fellow — which I
am inclined to doubt — the cold douche will sober him, and Ihc few
thousands that are left will enable him to make a fresh start And
yet how to administer the salutary bath ? He will return at one or
two o'clock in the morning, and will almost certainly refuse to leave
his bacchanalian rout to listen to my lectures. I shall be thankful
when I am well rid of the whole business. I shall lose my free
quarters, it is true, but then, thanks to John Company, I shall always
have enough for a glass of dry sherry and a grilled chop, and Science
is a mistress who does not scorn a garreu"

Having thus delivered himself, the Captain arose and perambu-
lated ttie apartment with slow measured strides. His exterior was
calm and impassible as usual, but in his heart he did not relish the
coming interview. And then the I^dy Wv^yKtf, already responsible
for a Parisian romance, began to put matters in train for a London one.

Pacing up and down in the fuliginous twilight, his foot came into

112

The Gentleman^ Magazine,

rather violent collision with an object in a dark comer of the room
which he had never happened lo notice before. It was a quaint old
Indian cabinet of camphor-wood, on whose panels the native artist
had depicted the incarnations of Vishnu. The housemaid had either
scorned or overlooked it in her periodical descents upon the study of
the late Obadiah Dench— to which the Captain seldom and Amos
never resorted— and it was consequently coaled with that thin layerof
dust which is such an abomination in the eyes of careful housewives.

The Captain carelessly glanced at this piece of antique furniture.
*' One of Obadiah's Oriental 6nds or purchases," he said to himself.
" By-the-by, as a crash appears to be imminent, I may as well see if
it contains any private papers which one would not care to be perused
by the broker."

The cabinet was locked, but after diligent search in an old-
fashioned, brass-bound desk, amongst the keys of the late proprietor
Captain Dench discovered one that fitted the lock. Upon opening
the disused receptacle, he found himself confronted by a double tier
of small drawers having an arched recess between them. With the
contents of these drawers the searcher felt inhnitelydisgusted; they were
trivial and utterly unworthy the attention of a man of science or c\-en
of business— cowries, a few mohurs, other Indian coins and medaU
of less ^'alue, some entomological specimens, fragments of ore, and other
unconsidered bric-A-brac- He was on the point of closing the cabinet
when it suddenly occurred to him that there was a considerable
amount of space not accounted for, and that the space lay at the back
of the arched recess above referred to, which was comparatively shallow,
while the drawers on either side traversed nearly the entire depth of
the cabinet

The Captain loved the solution of mechanical problems and
puzzles of all kinds ; he was quile a proficient in applied mathe-
matics, as well as in pure ; and his keen faculties were promptly set
to work, with the result that the Indian cabinet yielded up its secret
in a remarkably short space of time. AVithin the hiding-place whose
existence he had so sagaciously inferred lay a scaled letter, and
nothing more. Glancing at the superscription — " To my son,
Amos" — he had no diflSculty in recognising his brother's clear and
formal handwriting. Methodically replacing the drawer and closing
the cabinet, he drew down the blind, pulled the curtains to, lit the
lamp, and, wheeling an casy<hair round to a bright fire, sat down in
the light and warmth— no mean aids lo reflection — lo consider the
situation, with the letter still in his liand.

He was a man who had never troubled liimself with mctaphpical.

The Twelve Signs. 113

ethical, or theological subtleties— opon wbkfa be bad abn^ ^iEwf«f^
to look down from the superior scientific frfatfonn — but be was doC
deficient in a sense of bonoor wbidi bad bitberto been ba gnide m
all matters of conscience ; and this sense of honour was now doing
battle^ within his sool, with the fonnidable foe Ezpediencf , and
rapidly getting wmsted in the contest

*' In the abstract, no doabt," be afgned, as be hdd the letter
between bis finger and thnmb and stared tboi%|itlaIIy at the wofdt
"To my son, Amos," ** it is a disbooomable tfaing— gnhwoming «a
officer and a gentleman, and so forth — to open and read a letter
addressed to another. Bq^ on the other band, drcnmstanoes not
only modify, bat alter and control cases;. Now, bow do matteis
stand in the present instance ? Amos is posMSsed by all die devOs
of Mary Magdalene. I sboold bare 00 hfsHation in calbog bia
non eow^os mentis. I am his next friend and nearest rebtire; more-
over, of his own accord be has placed all business matters in my
bands. I therefore coodnde that it is within my rights — nay, that it
is my boonden duty— to open and read this letter."

Suitir^ the action to the word, be brdce the seal, UkUl the
contents from the envelope, and read as fi^Uows :

" Sow Alios, — It really matters but little whether you find this
letter, whether it falls into other bands, ot whether it remains tm-
discovered sine die. I leave all that in the bands of Fate. Should
you, however, come across it, please not to act upon the information
it contains till all is lost Even in the grave I would hug my cherished
secret to the last

"When yon have wasted— as I foresee yon wiD— the vast patri-
mony whidi you wiD inherit on my death, then — but not till then, if
you r^ird my wishes — descend secretly, with taper and matchrs, in
the still hours of the night, to the vaults beneath this house: Enter
the second passage to tbe left ; in the centre of the wall that faces
you, and five feet from the ground, you will discover, fixed in what
is apparently solid masonry, a small knob^ scarcely distinguishable
from the bead of an iron naiL Press it, and a door will open, dis
dosii^ a narrow aperture in the thickness of the wall. When yoa
have entered the recess^ tbe door will instantly dose upon yon. But
let not this alarm you ; for on your return yoa can readily open it
ag^ by means of another knob in a corresponding posidon on the
smooth inside surface. Here a portal of polished steel will confront
yoa. In pbce of bdtsand bars, lock, or other fintmina yuo wiU
ace twdve bnsen discs engraved in strange Indian &diioa with tfa*.

114

The GenilefHans Alagazine^

twelve zodiacal signs, and arranged in the form of a qulocimx. You
will find, moreover, that these discs are inserted in an oblong
metal plate traversed by a network of grooves, along which they can
be easily moved in a perpendicular or lateral direction. They may
thus be transposed at will, and are, of course, susceptible of an
immense number of different combinations. Unless, however, they
are arranged according to the schema which I enclose herewith, no
force short of dynamite can open the door. This ingenious con-
tri^-ance was the gift of a Fakir to whom I once rendered a service
which cost mc nothing. He assigned to it certain magic virtues;
but I am not a believer in magic — unless it be the natural magic of
tlie purse. When the figures have been duly placed in the proper
position, the portal will fly open, and you will gain admittance to the
shrine where my soul worshipped— a temple of Plutus indeed. You
will find wealth, compared with which what you inherited &om me
was a mere pittance. Use or abuse it. Whichever course you may
elect, I do not fancy that it will trouble my repose. I have read
your character, and know you to be a monster and a fool, with
potentialities for evil, limited only by the narrow scope of your
intellect and lack of opportunity, which will develop in time, and
most hkely lead to disastrous results, I am not such a lover of
society, of my kind, that I should greatly care. I might, it is true,
have bequeathed these riches to hospitals, to heathen missions, or to
be applied to the reduction of the national debt ; but then the world
and its charitable institutions are vile shams — as vUe as you are ; and
you, such as you are, are at least my fiesh and blood. Of the various
claimants, then, you have the best right to my treasure.

" I had almost omitted to say that when you wish to leave the
secret chamber — the door of which, like that leading from the vault,
will automatically dose when you enter — you will find a similar
arrangement of brazen discs within, which must be placed according
to the schema before you can obtain egress.

•' Obadiah Dench."

It seemed as though Fate bad mockingly ordained that this
evening, for the first time in the course of his life, Captain Dcnch
should be called upon to face and solve moral rather than mathematical
problems, and questions in casuistry rather than calculus. The
perusal of this cynical and most amazing letter, discovered \yy the
merest chance, threw the scientist off his balance— quite stag-
gered him. What should he do? This was a harder nut to
cmck than tlic question of opening the letter hod been. After long

The Twelve Signs*

i»5

I amdous deliberation he came to the conclusion that it would
be best, in the fint place, to test the genuineness of the communi-
cation, which, after all, might be only a practical joke — huge and
grim— and shape his future action according to the result.

The two old servants were generally in bed by ten o'clock —
AiDOs admitting himself and his companions in the early morning
hours with a latchkey — so that there would be ample time and oppor-
tunity for making an unobserved descent into the subterranean regions
before the return of lus nephew. He would wait till eleven o'clock.

Never did lover count with greater eagerness and impatience
the ** fly-slow" hours than did the gaunt old Anglo-Indian the
moments intervening between six and eleven o'clock. Barely had
the latter hour chimed when he arose, proN-ided himself with lamp
and matches, and, not forgetting the letter and the precious schema,
made his way noiselessly to the vaults. Here be found that all
tallied with the circumstantial instructions given by tlvc dead roan,
which he unhesitatingly followed till he stood within the narrow cell,
facing the steel portal.

As he was about to lift, as it were, the last veil of the mystery,
an unwonted tremor pervaded his whole being. He hesitated.
AV'as his action wise? What should he see behind that barrier?
What were the strange experiences which lay literally within arm's
length of him ? He speculated— men will do so at the most
imlikely times — as a suicide might speculate who, with the barrel
of a pistol pressed close to the roof of his mouth, wonders what
sensation will succeed the shock and thunder of the discharge when
he has pressed the trigger. Death might lurk behind the door.
He might be caught, on entering, in a man-trap which would never
release its fatal hold. He might be cast headlong down some deep
and noisome welL A skeleton might leap forth and clasp him in its
bony arms. Again, there might be only darkness and a great void,
which incoherent and conflicting surmises afforded lamentable proof
cf two facts — that the calm of the self-contained savant had given
place to the fever, fear, and sujierstition of the treasure- seeker, and
that Captain Dcnch had no very great faith in the amiable intentions
of his deceased brother Obadiah.

** I must make the plunge/' he murmured at last, " even though
the issue be as uncertain as that of * Hobbes's last voyage.'"

Consulting the schema, and nerving himself for the worst, he
placed the figures in position, and straigliiway the door flew open-
No ; Obadiah had not lied, notwithstanding his brother's strong
doubts as to his veracity. Far from lying or exaggCT^VkVx^>as.\\:L\

ii6

The GentUmans Magazine,

used such tame and prosaic language that the Captain was quite
unprepared for the apocalypse of splendour that almost blinded his
eyes. It was evident that the agent of the imperious and un-
scrupulous lord of Daylesford had not neglected to feather his own
nest whilst engaged in the task of intimidating the unhappy Begums of
Oude ; and it was equally evident that the mj-sterious Indian visitors
at Charlotte Square had not come empty-handed.

The Captain stood on the threshold of a small square chamber
of considerable altitude, whose walls, completely covered with plates
and laminae of solid burnished gold, fla.shed back the rays of the
lamp which he bore. Along each side of the apartment were
disposed in regular order large vases of porphyry, malachite, jade,
and agate, wherein were piled pyramidically heaps of precious stones
— diamonds, rubies, pigeon's-blood and balas, emeralds, amethysts,
topazes, sapphires, cat's-eyes, and, in short, elect and priceless
specimens of all known gems, some cut and polished, oUiers in the
rough. In the centre— enthroned, as it were, upon an aitar of purest
gold— lay the monarch of this chamber of treasure, the divinity to
whom no doubt Obadiah lunch's orisons were addressed— a diamond
which might have vied with and surpassed the great Braganza,
larger than a hen's egg of the average size, and probably weighing
close upon 2,000 carats.

As we have seen. Captain Dench's philosophical equanimity had
sustained many a rude shock during the course of a fateful evening j
it now finally gave way, and he felt inclined, treading in his brother's
footsteps, to fall down und worship before this superb and radiant
embodiment of wealth and the power that wealth gives.

It is a curious psychological fact and mystery that riches oflen
possess the greatest attraction for those who are unable to enjoy, or
even use them. Our old student was a sad exemplification of this
truth. Gloating over the gold and gems, attempting to assess their
value, then giving up the hopeless task, an hour in the subterranean
chamber passed for him like one moment.

It was now time for hira to return to the upper atr, and consider
what course he should adopt with reference to Amos and the
treasure, whose existence he had proved to be a dazeling fact.

He did not regain his apartments till somewhat p.ist midnight,
but before an hour had elapsed his fertile mind had bit upon and
elaborated a plan of campaign. Just then, to his great surprise, he
heard the lumbering footsteps of Amos in the hall.

*' What can have happened ? " he exclaimed, " Amos back a
^ood hour or more before bis usual time, aiMl alone ! "

The Twelve Signs.

IIL

ThB TtttLlTE SiCXS.

" Pardon me for being peraooal, Amos, bat reaUy you look u if
you had just seen a ghost"

" Oh, bother ghosts ! " savagely retorted the young man. " I
BQppose a fellow may be seedy occasionaUy."

At the best of times, as we hare intimated, Amos Dench was fas
UoxSi being handsome or attractive ; now be was positively hideous,
for his chocolate visage was mottled with violet patches, like the
disconsolate lover in Horace, his goggle eyes had a fishy glaxe, and
his long under-lip hung like a door loose on its binges.

Uncle Joel, who had met his nephew in the hall and followed
him LDto the dining-room, was too much accustomed to his amenities
to feel surprised at his rudeness on the present occasion. AVhat did
surprise him was the early return of Amos, sober, unaccompanied
by his usual rabble rout, and looking the picture of the most abject
terror.

He would have been stilt more surprised had he known the
catisc of his hopeful nephew's alarm. like most blusterers and
profligates, Amos Dench was a veritable Bob Acres — a man of no
moral, and very shaky physical, courage, and he bad really had a
tremendous fright that night — seen a ghost, or something worae. It
had chanced in this wise. Passing down Church Street, Soho — then
a gloomy haunt of poverty and vice,*horae and foreign, of Anarchists
and painted women — he had been suddenly met face to £ice by an
old man, below the middle height, but thick-set and burly, wearing a
long blade cloak and low, broad felt hat. His visage was har^ry,
olfish, and ghastly, and his lurid eyes flamed into those of Amos
lilh a fierce and irresistible mastery. He had hoarsely whispered
into the young man's ear "Come with me," and at the same time
with some violence clapped his hand upon his shoulder. Oh, that
irm ! that grip ! When the hand descended, it seemed to Amos as
if a thick iron bar had forcibly struck him ; when it rested upon
him, the chill as of an Arctic iceberg had tingled through his being,
quickly succeeded by such intolerable heat as only the furnace of
Geherma could generate. Straightway what manhood ho possessed
bad forsaken him. With womanish tears he had wailed, *'Oh, spare
me I spare me I " and the terrible lips, writhing in hellish sneer, had

Three'

Ii8

The Geniiemans Magazine,

come for you." With these words he had vamsbed from the sordid
circle of the lamplight.

After this rtncontre the young geatlcman had felt in no mood
for Wtissail or wassailers. Cold, trembling, with chattering teeth, and
a strange sinking feeling at the heart, he had hied him home at
once, wearing the hang-dog aspect which had elicited his uncle's
remark.

Once within the precincts of his Bloomsbury mansion, however^
he began to breathe more freely. Paying no further attention to
Captain Dench, he filled a tumbler with brandy, and drained it at
a gulp.

" I don't remember ever feeling so much out of sorts," he said
in a tone bet%reen a growl and a whine. " I think I shall be off to
Led."

" Have some more brandy."

Nothing loath, Amos swallowed another glassful of the raw
spirit. *' Dutch courage ! Dutch courage ! " he muttered. " Any-
how, it is better than a blue funk."

The Captain watched his nephew narrowly, and saw with satis-
faction that, under the potent influence of the alcohol, he was rapidly
recovering from his mysterious quandary. He was a man of iron
tenacity of purpose ; he had arranged all his phms, and he was
quite determined at all hazards to carrj* them out that very night.

" \ am glad you seem better, Amos," he said, "for I have some
important matters to communicate to you. Sit down, and let us
proceed to business."

"Business 1 oh, hang it all ! not tonight. Wait till I have slept
and had some breakfast."

" Impossible ! " was the Captain's curt and cool rejoinder ; *' you
must hear all now."

A currish nature instmctively obeys a firm hand^ and the old
oHicer knew his man.

*'AII right" — with an air of sullen resignation. "I don*t suppose
I could sleep, if I tried. Only, I say, cut it as short as you can."

" /ffi/n/A'/j," began his uncle, in a raatteroffacl tone, " I regret to
inform you that you are ruined — or, rather, have ruined yourself,"

" Ruined? You don't mean it I " yelled Amos, starting up and
fixing a glassy eye of horror upon his uncle.

» Oh yes I do, though," retorted the other. •' Perhaps, however,
it would be more correct to say that you are trembling on the verge
of ruin. A couple of thousands still remain, but you will get
llirough them in a month's time."

The Twelve Sipts.

119

Upon which unexpected and astounding intelligence the wretched
prodigal bowed hU head in his hands upon the table, and for the
second time that night began to weep— this time maudlin tears.

His uncle regarded the sordid picture of cowardly and unedifying
humiliation with a look of contempt and disgust for a moment.
Then, crossing to him, he laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

He certainly had not calculated upon tlic result Amos, to
whom the sudden touch recalled his recent Soho adventure, bounded
to his feet with a wild scream, as though he had received a powerful
dcctric shock.

Noticing the look of horror and alarm in his nephew's face, but
misinterpreting the cause, Cjptain Dench made haste to reassure
him. " Be a man, Amos," be said ; " things may not be as bad as
you fancy."

"But— but," whimpered the other, whom shame for his own
cowardice withheld from enlightening his uncle, " you say that I am
ruined ; and you ought to know, for you have kept the accounts."

" That is so," rejoined his uncle coolly. " And yet there may
be a door of hope, for all that • , . And now pull yourself together^
if yon can, and give me your best attention."

For answer Amos, who had resumed his seat and his despondent
attitude, raised his sodden face and nodded.

'* I have made a strange discovery," began the Captain.

" Is it anything like ' A New Way to Pay Old Debts ' ? " sneered
Amos, who happened to remember the title of Massiiigcr's play^
irith a sickly attempt at a witticism.

••That is precisely what it is."

"I^t us hear the wonderful prescription, then. It has certainly
turned up in the nick of time."

" Presently. You must hear what I have to say first. Supposing
that the discovery which I have made should lead to your obtaining
ft fortune compared with which that which you have just squandered
would be but a bagatelle, would you be willing to give me a brief
written agreement undertaking to share equally with me the wealth
which I should be instrumental in placing in your hands, and,
furtlierraote, to pledge me your word of honour that you will turn
aver a new leaf for the future ? The conditions are not hard. I
I a childless old man, and my portion of the treasure-trove would
ultimately revert to you ; and the second stipulation is manifestly in
your own interest Do not speak at once ; take time for reflection.
Should you decline my terms, I keep my discovery to ni>'sclf."

This stupendous announcement, revealing much and hinting at

120

The GentUmans Magazine,

still mote^ completely sobered Amos, upon whom the pint of brandy
which he had imbibed was beginning to lake efTect. Once more he
was poor and needy ; once more an unkind fate had called upon
him to deal with an old curmudgeon who had power to give or
to withhold ; it was time to drop bluster, to alter his tactics, and
slink back to the rdU which he had played with such signal
success in his father's lifetime — tlut of a false, supple, cimging
Tarlufie.

" Dear Uncle Joel," he exclaimed, with much apparent enthu-
siasm and affection, "you are my good genius. I accept — thankfully
accept — your conditions. Half of the fortune is too much ; the third
part will be enough for me. I will give you the written agreement.
As for turning over a new leaf, I faithfully promise you that I will.
In fact, I have got quite sick of that sort of thing."

"Methinks this gentleman dolh protest too much," said the
Captain to himself. Then aloud : " I am glad that you take such
a sensible view of things. You might just let me have the very
briefest memorandum. I shall be quite satisfied with an equal
share."

Procuring writing materials, Amos at once complied with his
uncle's request, and handed him the document, which that gentle-
man carefully perused, folded, and placed in his breast pocket along
with Obadiah's letter and the schema of the Twelve Signs.

"And now, sir," said our young man, "I am most anxious to
hear the story of your lucky find."

The Captain, whose new code of ethics did not condemn a
slight and necessary supprcssh vcri^ proceeded to relate how he had
found in a secret receptacle in the Indian cabinet a brief statement,
in Obadiah Dench's liandwriting, indicating tlie existence of an
immense treasure in the vaults beneath the mansion, and giving the
necessary directions for obtaining access to it. " This," he said,
producing the schema and showing it to Amos, who glanced at it
with a mystified air, " is the key to the secret."

Replacing the document in his pocket, the Captain continued :
*' At first I could scarcely credit the evidence of my own senses j
my next thought was that your father could not have been in his senses
when he penned the statement. Nevertheless I deemed it best, on
the whole, to investigate the matter. The result, I confess, surpassed
my wildest imaginations. The scene I beheld reminded me of those
subterranean palaces of the genii descrilx:d in your favourite book,
' The Arabian Nights,' "

'Ilie dull e)*ea of Amos shone for a moment wiuj tnc light of

The Twelve Signs. 121

cupidity. ** Dear uncle," he cried, " will 70U be my guide without
further delay to this home of enchantment 7 "

"Wait here, then. I shall be with you in a moment I want to
see that all is quiet upstairs."

"Gold," says the mocking fiend Mephistopbeles, "rules the
world "j it certainly changes the character of men. Its sunny
gleam, supplemented by the more potent radiance of the great
diamond and its attendant gems, had turned the dreamy, speculative
Archimedes whom, at the commencement of this narratircv we
contemplated deep in his mathematical problems^ into a not over-
scrupulous man of action and resource.

" I don't quite like the expression in that fellow's Cace," mused
the Captain when he had gain^l the solitude of his bedroom. " He
looks as if he had met the deviL"

He drew Obadiah's letter from his pocket, threw it into the fire,
and watched it till it was reduced to ashes. He next unlocked a
bureau, and deposited therein the schema together with the brief
agreement which Amos had just written out

" My brother's letter to Amos," he thought, " was decidedly de
trop -J I am not likely to forget the collocation of the signs "—the
Captain had the memory of a Magliabechi — "and these documents
will be just as well here for the present"

Taking a neat little revolver from the mantel, and thrusting it into
his bosom, he hurried downstairs and rejoined Amos, who was
walking up and down impatiently, while his unprepossessing coun-
tenance was working with excitement

" Come on, Uncle Joel," he gasped.

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when the two men
stealthily descended to the vaults beneath the old mansion. On
their way the Captain explained to his nephew in low tones the
important part which the twelve zodiacal signs played as guardians of
the treasure.

"The cabalistic figures on the paper you showed me are the
* Open Sesame * of this wonderful cave ? " questioned Amos carelessly.

" Yes," replied the other ; " that is the key to the arrangement of
the brazen discs of which I told you — the only means of gaining
access to or egress from the secret chamber."

They had now reached the first stage in their adventure, and the
Captain directed the attention of bis companion to the small knob in
the wall.

The secret door yielded to the pressure of the spring, noiselessly
closing again when they had stepped into the cavity.

VOL. cczcL Na 2048. ^

123 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Amos, holding the candlestick aloft with trembling hand, now
saw the steel barrier and the Twelve Signs. These, by virtue of a
curious mechanism, lapsed back into confusion on each occasion
simultaneously with the closure of the door, so that it was now
necessary for the Cnptain to arrange them once more in the order of
the schema.

"Don't you want to refer to the paper?" anxiously inquired
Anios. " You have it in your pocket."

"Yes, I know," rejoined his unde, "but I think I can trust to
memory."

With steady hand he carefully adjusted the signs, and the door
admitted them, shutting to spontaneously when they had entered,
while the brazen discs within immediately formed a new combination.
The candlestick would h.ivc dropped from the nerveless grasp of
Amos if the Captain had not promptly seized it, exclaiming, "Steady,
man ! it would never do to be left in darkness here. I have forgotten
Jiiatchcs, and I don't suppose you have any."

Amos, in truth, seemed to have lost the power of speech and
■niolion. He could only gaze open-mouthed at the massive glittering
red gold thai lined the chamber, at the costly urns and their still more
•costly burden, and the prismatic scintillations of Uie great diamond.
" This is an Aladdin's Cave indeed," he whispered at last. *' Here
is wealth sufficient to buy up an Empire."

"Yes, boy," returned Captain Dench, with a strange weird light
of enthusiasm on his cadaverous face; "and it is all yours and mine.
I shall probably not need it long j but while I Hve, it will be the one
pleasure of my existence to come down here occasionally to bathe in
the glorious light of that diamond, (o plunge my hands in yonder
vases and let the rubies and sapphires ripple like bmbcnt fire through
my fingers."

As he spoke, gold worked another fatal metamorphosis. The
spendthrift became a raiser. He wanted all for himself — all— and
now. He could not share it, and he could not wait. How tantalis-
ing to think that one old and feeble life alone barred him from the
sole, absolute, and undisputed possession of riches such as Croesus
had never dreamt of 1

And then the demon of murder, who is twin-brother and constant
associate of the demon of greed, whispered : *' That barrier must
be removed. You have the means wherewithal to do so— the
revolver in your pocket, the companion of your nightly prowlings.
You were too great a craven a few hours ago to turn it against the old
man of Soho ; use it now."

Tfie Twelve Signs,

123

The Tceble, guilly, sodden, polluted soul heard, and did not,
could not, resist the inner voice of ihe tempter.

" My dear uncle," he whispered, as if afraid to trust his own
voice, " do you not detect a slight flaw in the lower surface of this
splendid diamond?"

" Surely not," said the old man, stooping down to scrutinise the
jewel, while he placed the candlestick on the ground between two
vases.

He never rose again, for the next instant a bullet from Ins
nephew's revolver passed through his brain, and he fell forw-ard, dead,
across the golden altar.

For the moment Amos did not trouble himself about the body.
He danced about like a maniac ; he tossed the great diamond up in
the air and caught it again; he buried his hands deep in the urns,
and anon suffered the sparkling gems to flow in streams of coloured
light through his fingers.

'* All mine ! all mine ! " he cried, in delirious ecstasy.

Time flew rapidly by ; the candle was burning low, and he
knew the servants rose at six- He must for the present leave the
enchanted chamber ; the disposal of the body could await his
convenience.

The schema ! Faugh ! he must touch the corpse. He must
take the paper from the breast pocket, where he saw his uncle place
it. He turned the body over on its face, and put his hands into
the pocket He encountered somctliing smooth, hard, and cold-
It was the barrel of a revolver. There was no paper — no other
contents.

There was now but an inch of candle left.

With the howl of a wild beast the murderer threw himself on
the meagre corpse of his victim, staring glassily up at him with
yellow grin. He frantically rifled all the dead man's pockets. There
was no schema to be found.

The door I the Twelve Signs !

His last hope was that by some lucky chance he might hit upon
the right arrangement before the light failed him. He tried combi-
nation after combination — all in vain.

And then, in the midst of his experiments, the flame of the
candle leaped tip and expired. He was in darkness, shut oC for
ever from the living, without hope of release — alone with his gold,
his gems, his murdered man \

Wth an awful shriek of despair he launched himself against the
door of steel The words of his father's letter— that letter which he

■i^H^^^[^B

The GentkmatiS Magazine. '-^^

seen — were no itlle boost \ no force short of dynamite
lil against it.

blasphemies, prayers, rushed from his foaming lips in
luence* Then came oblivion for awhile ; but then the
ening.

to his appointmentjthe old man of Soho came for Amos
lidnight On the third day,

L' Envoi*

Iter the kpse of many years, chance led to the discovery-
it vault, and the two skeletons were found lying ihereia
in regal state, sunounded by gold and precious stones,
k Holmes of the period, with the aid of the schema,
jid documents belonging to the Dench family, togetlier
[circumstantial evidence afforded by the subterranean
id its grisly occupants, pieced together inductively an
leory respecting the tragedy of the two men whose sudden
0U3 disappearance had startled the contemporaiy world

^ory has furnished the present writer with material for the

ON THE MONKS' ISLAND.

THE low, mellow tones of a bell tolling solemnly half awakened
me. I began to wonder feebly where I was ; but instead of
trying to solre the question, I listened dreamily to the two soundt
nhich of all others are dear to me — the slow ringing of a dccptoncd
bell, and tlie lapping of the sea on the rocks.

Where was I ? A moonbeam fell across my face, and by its
iij^ht I distinguished the canvas of our tent. Such a tent it was, too I
A yard from some old ship had been lashed firmly to a tree ; over
this a sail was thrown, whose ends were roughly secured to the
ground with improvised tent-pegs. The door of the tent— if ono
may make use of such an expression— consisted of an old sheet much,
but neatly, patched. I could see the outline of the patches in the
moonlight. Lulled to rest by the lap-lapping of the waves and the
throbbing of the bell I fell asleep again without having distinctly
decided where I was. I was in Hlysium, at any rate, and was not
that enough 7

Next morning I was awakened in real earnest, not by pale, blue
moonlight, but by the brilliant sunshine of an August morning, and
realised that I was on the island of St. Honorat, oft Cannes.
On throwing back the curtain a scene fit for fairyland met my gaze.
Southward, as far as the eye could reach, the broad expanse of tlie
blue Mediterranean sparkled and danced in the sunlight. To our
left was the well-wooded island of St. Marguerite, whose fort is
celebrated as being one of the residences of the unfortunate wearer
of the Iron Mask. It was in this same fort that Bazainc was
imprisoned. His escape thence was long planned for by liis friends,
and, as some think, not regretted by the French Government. The
lact that the boat on wliich he sailed away was getting up steam off
tbe island the day before his flight, in full view of his gaolers, seems
to support this supposition.

Behind us lay the fairest of all the lovely towns of the Riviera—
Canites. As we looked at its sandy shore, its white villas, and a,t

The Gentleman s Magazine.

the old town climbing up the bill on the Idl, with the blue mountains
of the Est^rel in the distance, we agreed that wc had never seen a
more charming picture.

After a swim in the sea, which is so clear that yoa can distinguish
the pebbles and shells at the bottom through many feet of water, we
came back to our tent, guided thither by a refreshing odour of coffee.
We found a sailor's wife, who was to be our caterer, cook, house-
maid and messenger all in one, grinding the fragrant berries in her
little hand-mill, talking the while to her wee son, who had, as he
anon informed us with great dignity, lately attained the age of four.
Our factotum had a sweet face, a delicate brunette skin, and dark
hair brushed back in gentle waves from the forehead. Her e)*es, as
they lit up to greet us, were of that liquid yet fiery t)'pe which is so
characteristic of the Southerner. They looked like two deep, dark
lakes with sunlight glinting on the surface.

She came to meet us, holding out her hand, with easy grace.
Had we enjoyed our bath ? Had we slept well ? What did Madame
think of her first night in a tent ? Oh I for Monsieur she was not
uneasy. An officer, who had been abroad on active service, and
must have camped out who knows where, would make allowances;
but Madame ? Here she shrugged her pretty shoulders and looked at
me inquiringly. I assured her I had never slept better in my life,
and asked her the meaning of the bell which had awakened but not
disturbed me.

That was the bell of the reverend Fathers whose monastery spire
wc could see in the distance through the trees. They had to rise
at three o'clock every morning, peckcre! Xxy go to Matins, and the bell
rang to call them. But now she would miokc the cofTce, and then
she must be off to get the day's provisions. She made it on a gipsy
fire, and excellent it was. She still chatted pleasantly, telling us that
her husband would soon be back from fishing; at which the little
Louis clapped his hands with glee, cxcbiming:

" Tu nous/eras de 2a bomliabaisse^ dis,f>ttifi mhref"

She smilingly assented, then asked if wc should like to taste this
southern delicacy, wliich is highly esteemed all along the coast from
Marseilles to Mcntonc. Monsieur knew it, of course ; but Madame ?
Again the inquiring glance and the pretty movement of her shapely
shoulders. Finding Madame liked nothing better than to try
every new dish that came in her way, she asked for out commhshns^
which included the following somewhat incongruous articlr^s : the
daily paper, two chops, a box of hairpms, some stamps, a bottle of
ink, and some fruit. She got into a boat with little Louis and rowtd

On the Monks Island.

1*7

off towards the shore. We watched them gliding slowly ihrough the
traler and listened to the pla^ of the oars, then turned to go round
the island.

St. Honorat was already known to me by name, for a much-
admired friend, cutting short a brilliant career, turning his back on
the world and its honours, had buried himself in the monastery
which occupies the centre of the island. He was no longer there j
but the place was dear to me for hb sake, and I was very dcidrous
of visiting the church where he had so often worshipped.

1 had paid a hasty visit to the island with my husband, wlio
knew it well, a week before, and, seeing a few tents there belonsing
to fisherfolt, thought how delightful it would be to spend a week
or so m one ourselves. We applied to the sailor's wife in question,
who, having obtained the requisite permission from the Rh^rtnds
Peres (the whole island belongs to them), pitched our tent near
her own.

St, Honorat is about a mile in length. As it is not very broad,
one does not take long to walk round it. It is covered with pines
that afford a pleasant shade and emit that peculiar odour which,
when mixed with sea air, is so exhilarating. On one side the
island slopes gently down to the water ; on the other the coast is
formed of bold rocks. There are many little inlets, which make
limpid bathing-pools and fishponds. As we turned round a point
we came upon the old monastery, a large square building of yellow
stone, standing out in delightful contrast with the blue sea and sky.
That it was founded by St. Honorat (at the beginning of the
fifth century) the name of the island still proclaims. The actual
building was finished about the year 1 1 16. It Is a fortress, and has
repelled many an attack from pirates and others. The island was
conquered or invaded half a score of times from 731 to 1746. At
the time of the Revolution it became propriety nationale. It then
pftssed through various purchasers' hands, including an actress and a
butcher, imlil il was bought by the Bishop of Fr^jus, forty ye^rs
■go, and the new convent was built and the monks reinstated.

The old fortress-monastery is preserved by the State as a
moKutrunt hiiiorique. A lay-brother, dressed in brown frock and
cowl, showed us over it He was an ideal monk, with finely cut
features and an ascetic air that, combined with his genial smile,
inspired one with confidence. He pointed out to us the remains
of the refectory, the chapel, and traces of the cells.

la Imagination we went back several hundred years and saw the
monks engaged in tbdr peaceful avocations (save when obliged to

128

The Gentleman s Magazine,

repel iavaders), walking with bent bead and gentle tread, ever silent
yet never idle,

" WTiat Order do you belong to ? " I asked our guide.

"AVe arc Bernardins dc rimmacuWe Conception," he replied.

" Indeed ; that is a new name to roe."

" We were established in France between 1840-50 by the
R(5vtfrend Perc Dom Marie- Bernard."

"But I thought you were Cistercians."

"So we are, Madame. This is how it is. Religious services,
and necessarily religious Orders, were suppressed at the Revolution.
By degrees some of the latter were reestablished, but not all. On
the other hand, several new Orders were founded, and amongst them
our own. We are a branch of the Cistercian Order, which itself is
nothing else than the Order of St. Benedict restored to its primitive
institutions and original severity by the reform of 109S, which was
brought about by Sl Robert de Champagne in the monastery of
Citeaux. St. Bernard, the most illustrious monk of that abbey, founded
the monastery of Clain'aux. Many others wcreestablished in thecoursc
• of time,andtodistinguishthc Reformed Benedictin^i from the ordinary
monkstheformerwerecalledCisiercians. The peoplc^addedourguide,
with a smile, "call us the white monks, as our choir-brothers wear
white frocks and cowls in honour of the Virgin. The ordinary Bene-
dictins they term black monks, for they have adhered to that colour."

" But I always hear you spoken of as Trappists. Why is that ? "
I asked.

"Ah, Madame, in this evil world all degenerates; religious
Orders, alas ! form no exception to the rule. By degrees discipline
became lax, and a new reform was started by the Abbot de Ranc^
(who, as commendatory abbot, h.^ lived for naught but pleasure
and fashion up to the age of thirty) at the monastery of La Trappe ;
hence the name Trappists, which is applied to those Cistercians
that adopted this reform.

"When the R^v^rend Vcre Dom Marie-Bernard founded our
Order he mitigated somewhat the severity of the Trappist rule. The
attenuations are very slight, the chief one being that we have
separate cells instead of the common dormitory of the Trappists.
So, strictly speaking, we arc not Trappists, though we arc so similar
that the general public sees no difference and calls us by that name.
However, all branches of tlie Reformed Cistercian Order — severe and
mitigated — have been lately united in a kind of federation which,
whilst leaving each of them independent, procures for them all the
advantages accruing from union. This federation bos as its h«ad

On ike Monks' Island,

129

and representadve in Rome an abbot who bears the title of *tAlM
G^/rai de tOrdre de Citeaux,* There ore about sixty houses
bdoi^ng to the Order all over the vortd, twcnty^onc of which are
in France.'*

We climbed the steps to the roof of the old fortrcg^, and, looking
over the battlements, admired the wonderful view.

*' Is it true." I asked — and I suppose my voice expressed the
sympathy I felt, for I saw a gleam of mischief flash over our guide's
face as he answered me — " is il true that the Tmppists never upeiik ? "

" It is quite true. Madame knows that the Holy Scriptures soy
that he that offends not with his tongue is perfect. Trappists aim
at this perfection, and only use their tongues to confcsN their faults
and sing the praises of God. Those that by their functions aru
obliged to speak, such as the abbot, the gue$t-master, the porter,
&c., as a rule much regret that their duties prevent them from
keeping silence, and they speak as briefly as possible. Madame
perhaps knows that there arc convents for women of the samo
Order, and that they are the most flouri-^hing of any,"

That I could understAnd ; in fact, it seems 10 me tluit the only
oonvent where you could expect peace to reign over a week would
be one where silence is absolutely binding. However, I was not
{j-oing to admit this to our amiable conductor, and I objected :

"In some cases it would be very hard to keep silent. If a monk
saw his brother in danger from a falling tile or a vi[>cr, I should think
be would be tempted to break the rule."

*' He would break no rule by speaking in such a caw. La chariti
pisu avant tout, and it would be his duty lu speak. Much, how*
ever, may be done by signs."

Here we arrived at the foot of the ruin, and, fearing to weary the
kindly monk with further qucstionsi we took leave of him for that
day. He shook my husband's hand warmly, and in a misguided
moment I held out mine. He drew back a step, then said 1 " Ah,
Madame, we are not allowed to touch the fair sex ; " then, with a
courteous inclination of the head, he added gently, as if afraid of
having wounded me, " Tis our loss, Madame, mais ^est la rtgU."

We wandered on, and came upon an orphanage for boys which is
entirely supported by the monk^. The children arc taught printing —
we heard the press working as we approached. Wc visited llie
building, and noticed how well-behaved its inmates were. Ai we
cominued our itroU we arrived at the door of the present monastery*
with its simple church (dedicated, as arc all churches of the Order, to
the Blened Virgin), surrounded by the monks* cells. We were

I30

The Gentiemans Magazine.

admitted, on ringing, to the parlour. We asked to be shown over
the monastery. The porter said that Monsieur was very welcome to
see the building, but Madame — here he turned to me and, bowing
politely, asked : *' Madame knows our rule ? Indies are never
admitted within the ddture"

" But I so much want to see the church and one of the cells," I
replied. " Won't you let me iii for one minute ? I will only just
peep, and come away." And I looked pleadingly at the monk.

" Madame sees me profoundly sorry to be obliged to refuse, but
no woman, unless she wears a crown, may be admiticd within the
elfitufr. Cest ia rigU,'' Then, seeing ray disappointment, he added,
*' There is really nothing to see — ^a plain church, and small rooms
much like this parlour.**

But I was not prompted by curiosity, as he thought, but by
afliection. I wanted to kneel in the stall where my friend bad knelt,
and sec the little room where he had so often poured out his soul
to God, where so many recollections of his former manner of life
must have come crowding round him.

Still there was nothing left but to come away. My husband,
who knew the convent well, did not care to revisit it without me,
and he did his best to console me ; but he had hard work.

During the afternoon we rested under the pine trees with the
sea at our feet, as smooth as glass, vibrating in the heat of the sun.
We gave ourselves up to the doke far nicnU which is only pleasant
or possible under cloudless skies. Towards evening we watched the
sun preparing to sink behind the Estdrel, and admired the changing
hues of the water. In the haxy distance tlie sea shimmered with
all the delicate and varied lints of moiher-of-pcarl, and the pale
moon, growing gradually luminous, shed a faint track of siK*ery
light across the wavelets that rippled noiselessly in the refreshing
evening breeze.

We were sitting speediless, lost in admiration, when we beard
the voice of little Louis calling to us : " Venct viU^petitt mire a fait
ia bouiUabaisse" We followed him, and found our hostess^
surrounded by a few fisher-folk, bending over her cooking-pot,
whence issued an odour of fish, saffron and garlic She cut slices
of bread into a soup-tureen, and poured over them the hot fish soup.
Knowing thai my face was being carefully watched, I took my first
spoonful of the new dish with an appreciative smile which earned
for me the approval of the entire group and made them my friends
for life.

After supper we chatted with the kindly people, the moon throw-

On the Monks* Island,

131

Tng dark shadows on the ground. My husband amused Louis by
making shadow animals for him on the tent, imitating their cries.
The child was delighted, and dapped his chubby hands, shouting
"Emorel tncortl" We were young and inexperienced, and did
not know how narrow is the borderland between smiles and t«irs,
fun and fear in children's minds ; so picture succeeded picture until,
suddenly, the little boy hid his face on his mother's breast, exclaiming
"y *"*/""*> WW*/" Nothing could console him, and he awoke
several times during the night, liauntcd by the weird shadows he
had seen in the moonlight.

And so the days passed by, leaving behind them memories that will
never lose their charm. One afternoon we watched the Mediterranean
Squadron steam by on its way to anchor in the Golfe Juan. We
had felt so carried back to the Middle Ages by our surroundings and
the very garb of the monks, whom we watched at their daily work
in the fields, that these modem monsters seemed an anachronism.

We made another visit to the fortress, and were heartily welcomed
by our former guide.

" Why did your bell ring at eleven o'clock last night ? " was my
first question.

"Did it disturb Madame?" he asked quickly, with that sincere
consideration for the comfort of others which true ascetics, who
admit of no ease for themselves, always show.

" No, indeed," I replied ; '* 1 love to hear it day or night ; it has
seemed a living thing to me all the time we have been here. I only
wondered why it rang,"

"Because it was the eve of the Assumption of our Lady. We
rise at eleven on the eves of the great feasts."

"Then you have only three hours' sleep?"

"Just so, Madame."

" What do the monks do all day long on ordinary occasions ? " I
asked.

"Madame refers to thc/^.r, no doubt. There are two classes
of monks."

"Yes, I notice some of you wear brown frocks aod cowls, and
the others have white frocks and black siapulains*'

"Those of us who are clad in brown are the frires convers
lay-brothers). We do the rougher work of the monastery. Some
of us cannot even read, and could not follow the Offices with profit.
'Mais celui qui iravaiiU prie^ not so Madame? The p^res (choir-
brothers), who are dressed in white, sing the praises of God from
their books, as wc cannot do ; but we often join them in church

132 The Gentlcmans Magazine.

during the day and praise God in our humble way. I will tell
Madame how the pires spend the day. We all rise at five minutes
to three. We sleep in our frocks, ready to get up the moment the
bell rings, and by three o'clock we are all in the church reciting
Matins of the Office of our Lady. After this the f^ra draw their
hoods over their heads, and sit in the dimly lighted church meditating
for half an hour. At four o'clock Matins and Lauds of the Monastic
OfBce are recited. At five o'clock those plrts who are priests say
Mass ; the others pray and meditate. At .seven o'clock I'rime is
sung, followed by the Chapter, where the Rule is sung and explained,
and all infractions arc publicly confessed by the assembled monks.
After this we break our fast — if it happens to be during the time
between E.nster and September 14— by eating a slice of bread and
n piece of cheese ; unless it is a fast day."

'* And if it is not between Easter and September? " I queried.

"We eat nothing till noon," he rephcd calmly.

" But how can you sing and pray and work for nine hours with-
out taking food? I should think some must faint from exhaustion."

" I have never seen that happen. It is necessary to master the
body, so that the spirit may be more at liberiy.'*

" Well," I replied, " I am glad to know that you have breakfasted
4o-day. What do the/i^rfj do next ? "

" They go to their cells, sweep and tidy them. Then they per-
form their ablutions. After this they work at some manual labour,
generally in the fields, until nine o'clock, when Tierce is recited, after
which they are free to work in their cells. They mostly pass the
time in the study of the Bible and of those works of the Fathers
that deal with monastic life. When work ts pressing, on account of
the weather, or in harvest, the hours are somewhat altered ; they
then work seven hours a day out of doors, if necessary. At half-
past eleven Sixte and examination of conscience. Then dinner."

I heaved a sigh of relief.

" I hope you have a hearty meal. What do they give you?"

•* Vegetable soup, a vegetable dish, bread and a fruit. All is
mnigre : neither fat nor butter is used in preparing the food ; we can
have oil and vinegar. We have a sufficient quantity, and half a litre
of wine each for the twenty-four hours. During the meal the life of a
saint is read by the monks in turn, a week at a time. As we go to
the refectory we chant the Miitrcre, and on leaving it another Psalm.

"After dinner we are free to do as we like. Some walk in the
cloisters, some tend the garden, others read or study, but no one speaks
A word.

On ike Monks Island.

" At two o'clock the pins work again in the fields. Madame
has seen them ? '*

" Yes, often ; it interests me to watch them."

" At four o'clock ihey leave their work and go to Vespers in the
church. Then they study again in their cells. At half-past six,
meditation. At seven o'clock supper, which resembles dinner.
Half an hour later Chapter, when some ascetic work is read out
loud. Then Compline is sung in the church, and after examination
of conscience the day is closed by the singing of Salve Rcgina, and
we all retire to resL"

In r^sum^ :

Four hours of manual work at least, this being the minimum.

Four hours of study.

Seven hours spent in singing the praises of God, in meditation
and in prayer.

Two hours' recreation, including meals.

Seven hours' sleep.

And some people talk about lazy monks !

The words of R. L. Stevenson on this subject recurred to me :

" Into how many houses would not the note of the monastery
bell, dividing the day into manageable portions, bring peace of mind
and healthy activity of body ! We speak of hardships, but the true
hardship is to be a dull fool, and permitted to mismanage life in
one's own dull, foolish manner,"

I asked our friendly cicerone, on another occasion, what faults
they were that had to be publicly confessed at Chapter. He men-
tioned the following :

Speaking, though but a single word.

Raising the eyes, on entering the church, to the gallery where
i-isitors sit.

Being late for the Offices.

Working in the fields with nonchalance.

Refraining from singing during the Offices.

For these infractions of the rule the Abbot inflicts punishments
which differ according to the gravity of the offence, and the individual
temperament of the delinquents.

Those who arrive late for the Offices sit in the lower row of stalls,
where there are no Iwoks, to avoid disturbing their companions, who
are already in their places, by passing in front of them. Other
punishments are to kiss the feet of each monk in turn ; to kneel
during the first part of dinner ; to dine sealed on a stool, or some-
times even kneeling, in the middle of the rcfector}*. The most

'32

The Gentleman's Magazine,

during the day and praise God in our humble way. I will teU
Madame how ihe/^« spend ihe day. We all rise at five minutes
to three. W't sleep in our frocks, ready to get up the moment the
bell rings, and by three o'clock we are all in the cbtucli reciting
Matins of the Office of our Lady. After this the pires draw tlieir
hoods over their beads, and sit in the dimly lighted church meditating
for half an hour. At four o'clock Matins and Lauds of the Monastic
Office are recited. At five o'clock those pins who are priests say
Mass ; the others pray and meditate. At seven o'clock Prime is
sung, followed by the Chapter, where the Rule is sung and explained,
and all infractions are publicly confessed by the assembled monks.
After this we break our fast — if it happens to be during the time
between Easter and September 14— by eating a slice of bread and
a piece of cheese ; unless it is a fast day.'*

'* And if it is not between Easier and September?" I queried*

" We eat nothing till noon," he replied calmly.

" But how can you sing and pray and work for nine hours with-
out taking food? I should think some must faint from exhaustion."

" I have never seen that happen. It is necessary to roaster the
body, so that the spirit may be more at libeny."

"Well," I replied, " I am glad to know that you have breakfasted
40-day. What do the/t-^f do next ? "

" They go to their cells, sweep and tidy them. Then they per-
form their ablutions. Af^cr this they work at some manual labour,
generally in the fields, until nine o'clock, when Tierce is recited, after
which they are free to work in their cells. They mostly pass the
time in the study of the Bible and of those works of the Fathers
that deal with monastic life. When work is pressing, on account of
the weather, or in harveitt, the hours are somewtiat altered ; they
then work seven hours a day out of doors, if necessary. At half-
past eleven Sixte and examination of conscience. Then duiDer.**

I heaved a sigh of relief.

" I hope you have a hearty meal. What do they give you ? "

" Vegetable soup, a vegetable dibh, bread and a fruiL All is
aigre : neither fat nor butter is used in preparing tlie food ; we can
have oil and vinegar. We ha\-e a sufficient quantity, and half a litre
of wine each for the twenty-four hours. During the meal the life of a
saint is read by the monks in turn, a week at a lime As we go to
Ihc refectory we chant the Afisererr, and on leaving it another Psolra,

"After dinner we axe free to do as we like. Some walk in the
cloisters, some tend the garden, others read or study, but noone^eaka
A word.

Om Urn Mmks* Idmmd. 135

"At two o'd(M^ die /errr vert a^dn m die fie3&
fais seen diem?*

"Yes.aAm; k nHocds me to valdi dicm.'

■■Atfoord'dockdi^lesicdieB-wiikaDdgD toVcspcs ia &e
dinrdi. Tlien di^ stvif ^5^^ m dior ceftL. Aft Iwlfjif s^
iiie£tatioiL At seven oclocx "'jf^*^ ■IdlIi ics^Bfaies dHBoi
Half an boor later fJnplrr, vfaen some asoebc nk is icad art
loud. Then Ccoipfine is song m die dandi, and afio^ eoMBatiiH
of f ntwrimrr. die d«y is dosed by the sfapog of Sibe ib^ena, aid
we all ictiie to rest*

Inrfenmf :

Foot boors of manaal work at least, dns beii^ ifae ■■'

Four boms of stody.

Seven boms qient in sing^ tbe poises of God, in metfisazioa
andinpniyer.

Two boors' recieatiao, indDtfiz^ meak.

Seven hoars' sleepu

And some people talk about la^ monks !

The voids of R. L. Stevenson 00 this sobject lecmicd to me :

" Into bow manj hoases would not die note of the monastery
bell, dividu^ die day into manageable portions^ bnr% peace of mind
and bealdiy activity %A body \ We speak erf* barddiips, bat the tree
hardship is to be a doll fool, and permitted to mismanage life in
one's own doll, foolish manner."

I asked oar fiiendly cicerone^ cm another occasion, what £uilte
they were that had to be pobUdy ccmfessed at Ch^iter. He men-
tioned die followii^ :

Speaking diough hot a single word.

Raising the eyes, on entering the church, to the gallery where
visitors sit.

Being late for the Offices.

Working in the fields with nonchalance.

Refrsuning from singing during the Offices.

For these infractions of the rule the Abbot inflicts punishments
which differ according to the gravity of the offence, and the individual
temperament of the delinquents.

Those who arrive UUe for the Offices sit in the lower row of stalls,
where there are no books, to avoid disturbing their companions, who
are already in their places, t^ passing in front of them. Other
punishments are to kiss the feet of each monk in turn ; to kneel
during the first part of dinner ; to dine seated on a stool, or some-
times even kneeling, in the middle of the refectory. The most

136

The GentiemaiCs Magazine^

monks had fallen on their knees, with their faces to the earth, thd
chantn crying, in the wailing tones we had just heard, the word*
Domine I The monks replied, lower down the scale, Miscnre super
peccatorem. Then the chantn again uttered that heart-rending cry,
Doming t and the monks replied. Yet a third time that piteous
call, as of a soul on the confines of despair, Votnine / and once more
the response, which floated over the wall like a sob, " Pity for a poor
sinner." I was thrilled through and through.

The day continued mule and oppressive. Little Louis was
fractious, and his gentle mother had much to do to keep him amused
all day. He complained of his head, of being tired, yet unable to'
sleep. The adult portion of our community seemed depressed and
weary. There was an unearthly hush, as if some terrible catastrophe
were at hand. Instead of being borne up by the atmosphere, the air
rested heavily on us, as if for support. On the horizon were clouds
of a coppery hue, and the sailors shook their heads as they looked
out to sea. After supper we went for a stroll round the island, but
every stone seemed to me to be listening, every rock waiting, for
something ind^finissabk yet awful ; from behind each tree I fancied
I saw a mysterious white-robed figure glide as we approached. In
the stillness, so intense that it was as if Nature herself were holding
her breath to listen for that \-ague but dread something, I suddeiily
heard an unearthly shriek, Domine !

It was purely imaginary, but I could bear it no longer, so we
hastened back to the tent. We found Louis moaning in his sleep
in his mother's arms. She was not over-anxious about him ; she
said /e kmps Hait maladt^ and made the child maladt too.

When I fell asleep, it was to repeat in my dreams the haunting
sensations of the day, I thought it was my friend who was dying,
1 heard the four consecutive knocks, several times repeated, and they
seemed to be beaten on my heart. I strained my ears, striving, yet
fearing, to catch the fatal roll announcing that all was over. As the
silence was prolonged after the last four knocks, I hoped against
hope. But, suddenly, I heard the dreaded roll beginning in the
distance, feebly at first, but growing stronger and stronger, until it
ftppeaxed to me to be a living thing rolling towards me, to burst to
untold horror on my beating heart, and I was powerless to lift a
finger. As it was about to touch me, I recoiled with a despairing
elTort, and awoke with a scream. A flash of light, which in my over-
wrought state I took for the open heavens, was followed by a second
roll, terminating in a tcrrixic crash. I realised, at last, that a violent
thunderstorm was breaking over our heads. In another moroenl the

On the Monks Jsland.

rain streamed down, as it only can in the South. Our tent was wet
through berore we bad finished huddling on our clothes, and soon
protected os little more thnn would a hair sieve. Wc hastily sought
refuge in the htlle restaurant, and thence watched the lightning
playing round the island. At one moment it illuminated the
whole of Carmes, which, for a passing second, was as visible as at
high noon. Then it flashed behind the Estcrel ; then the whole
horiron seemed on fire. The thunder was now rumbling, now
tearing and cracking over our beads. It was terrible, yet it brought
relief. Nature, who had been mute for two whole days, now gave
vent to her pent-up feelings ; the strain was over. One brilliant
fiash, with a lurid fork of lightning zigzagging down into the sea, was
accompanied by a succession of reports, as though sheets of iron had
been torn in half and tlie jagged edges hurled against each other
again.

After this the storm began to abate. The rain rattled on the roof
of our shelter in a crescendo which would have been unbearable but
for the silence of the preceding days. Now all sound was welcome.
I felt tempted to rush out into the ratn and shriek with the storm.
By d^ees the thunder rolled sullenly away into the distance, and,
tired out with our previous sleepless night, we lay down to rest
on our improvised beds, and fell asleep to the soothing lullaby
of the monastery bell, for it was now three o'clock in the
morning.

We awoke later in the day to find the sun shining in a cloudless

omc of blue ; the only sign of the night's turmoil was the tossing

It seemed to be fretting over the past disturbance and to be

' too agitated to forget it and settle down again to its usual summer

repose. The air was delicious, and we felt new*born as we inhaled

the aromatic odour of the pine trees and the ozone from the sea.

was skipping about in unconscious reinvigoration of body.

fishcr-folk, bright and cheerful, hailed one another with a

nse of a vague danger overpast

Wc stayed a few days longer on the island, then bade farewell to
our ^end the monk. Our hostess accompanied us to shore, her
iktisband rowing, with little Louis by his side, who, with his chubby
baby hands on one of the oars beside his father's rough brown fingers,
was convinced that he was doing all the work.

As we looked back at tlie island where we had Sjient such happy
and such memorable hours, I had but one r^rei, which I whispered
to my husband : " If I could only have seen the church and have
knelt in that stall I "*

VOL. c«ci. NO. acktS. ^

»38

Tim GentUnuiiCs Afagaztne.

II.

Ons da^ in the following March, as I vas sitting in our villa, in
foU view of the islands (for ve bad settled near them, so great nras
their attraction), singing a lulbby to our baby, who had come with
the New Year, my husband entered with the air of one who brings
good news.

"Your wish is to be gratified at last, petite!'^ he exclaimed.
"Just listen to this." He read a paragraph from the paper, announc-
ing that the benediction of the newly-elected Abbot of Notre-Dame
de Ltrins (the group of islands, including St. Marguerite, St Honorat,
and several tiny islets, is called Us ties de JJrtns^) was to take place
on the following Tuesday, and the Pope had granted a dispense per-
mitting women to enter the church and be present at the ceremony.
The news seemed too good to be true, but there it was in black and
while.

Rising early on the Tuesday morning, wc embarked on the
steamer that was to convey us to St Honorat When we reached
the convent, I found, to my regret, thai women had to go to the
gallerj' and men to the nave of the church. "Then I shall not see
the stall, after all," I said to my husband.

*' Yes, you can see it from the galler>'. It is the eighth from the
altar on the right-hand side."

All the best places were taken upstairs, so I had to keep at the
back. I began to count the stalls. 1 could see the sixth, and, by
craning my neck, the arm of the seventh, but not an inch of the
eighth. It was loo provoking I

The two chapels, the large one for the Bishop and the small one
for the Abbot, were visible. I noticed two little wine-casks covered
respectively with gold and silver paper ; also two enormous loaves
similarly decorated. As 1 was wondering what they were for, the
procession entered the church. I followed the service with much
interest The Bishop and the Abbot-elect donned their sacerdotal
garments. Then two Abbots, from monasteries belonging to other
Orders, presented the postulant to the Bishop, who was seated en
his throne. Six times, in response to the Bishop's questions as to
whether he would be circumspect in conduct, a faithful leader of ihe
flock, obedient to the Pope and to the Bishop, &c,, the Abbot
replied " Volo." Then they both said Mass in their chapels. After
the Psalms and the Litany, chanted by the monk^, during which the
Abbot-elect lay prostrate on the ground, the Bishop blessed him and

Oh ike Monks* Island.

139

the monVa sang the Kyrie. Before the Preface the Abbot rose, then
knelt before Ihe Bishop ; at its dose the impoduon of bands took
place. Some prayers followed ; then the Prelate gave successively
to the kneeling Abbot the Rule, the crosier, and the ring (set with a
diamond). Then the Bishop gave him the kiss of peace, as did also
the two Abbots. After the offertory the Abbot presented the casks
of win^ the loaves, and two candles, weighing four pounds each, to
the Bishop. The bread and wine, I was told afterwards, were
emblems of eternal priesthood after the order of Melchisedec ; the
candles recalled the words of our Lord, " Ve are the light of the
world." Mass proceeded, but the Abbot did not pronounce the
words of consecration. The Bishop received the communion in
both kinds, then gave the hostU to the Abbot After the Post-com-
munion the Bishop gave the benediction, and placed the mitre on
the Abbot's head, removed the ring and put on the gloves, replacing
the ring on the gloved finger. The bells now rang joyfully as the
pontiff conducted the Abbot to his abbalial chair, and, placing the
crosier in his left hand, gave him authority to govern the monastery
and its inhabitants. He then began the Te Deum. iVfter the first
line the Abbot rose, and, accompanied by his brother Abbots, pro-
ceeded round the church, blessing the people : the monks then
advanced in order, and, after a profound inclination, exchanged with
their new conductor the kiss of brotherly love. After the Tt Deum
and a prayer the Abbot rose, gave the solemn benediction, and
terminated the ceremony by turning towards the Bishop and singing,
on his knees, Ad multos amws.

The procession left the church, the Abbot blessing the people as
he passed. Outside a very aged couple were awaiting the Abbot,
and, kneeling, begged to kiss his hand; they made a touching picture.

The mass of visitors went off by the steamer. We had engaged
a boat to row us back, so stayed behind, and, returning to the monas-
tery after revisiting the old familiar spots round the island, foimd we
were free to enter. We \-isited the Chapter and the refectory, but
were not allowed to see the cells. When it was time for Vespers, we
went into the gallery and listened to the monks chanting the office.
We were quite alone. The slow Gregorian clrnnt, the tender
reverence expressed in the tones of the singers, the white-robed
figures, the dimly-lighted church, made a harmonious whole, and
carried us back to the early ages of Christianity. I now saw and
heard how my friend had passed many an hour.

After the last prayer had been said, and the monks had left their
stalls, returning with bent heads to their cells, we went down» and^

TAs Gentientan's Magasine.

iring us, entered the nave and went to the stall — at last I
)iQ overwhelmed by a host of conflicting emotions, tny
reeling by my side. I prayed fervently for my friend, and
in hand, we went to our boat and rowed home bathed in
, then crimson, glory of the setting sun-
h had been gratified ; I was content.

z£l1A DE LADEVfezE.

■

A STUDY OF NIGHTJARS.

THE Nightjar is one of the most curious and highlr ipectaUBed
of our birds. It is interesting not only on account of iti
peculiar habits, but for certain things about it in which it differs
from any other bird. Its protective marks and highly proteclivc
insliocu are what first attract and almost fascinate the student ; but

'">'!l.

THK MCHTJAt.

the more he observes and studies, the more do his surprises increase.
Even its multitude of names is suggestive, proving that long before
the days of exact natural history it was much looked alter and
vatcfacd, and its peculiarities noted, and many of them preserved in
names. Besides the Nightjar, it is the goat*8ucker, the eve-churr,
the eve-jar, the wheel-bird, the dorr-hawk, the fern-owl, the chum-
owl, and the fern-hawk. It is, in aspect, somelliing between a hawk
and a cuckoo, or, as some have said, between a swallow and an owl.
In ccitain positions and aspects it has really a touch or reminder
of all these birds, yet in other things it is thoroughly unlike all or any
of them.

142

The Gentlemafis Magazine,

II.

In some parts of the country it is regarded by the rustics as a
monstrosity, as an uncanny bird that it is not lucky to come near;
and by farmers and woodmen in some parts it is mercilessly hunted
and shot down, though, as we shall see, it is one of their very best
friends. In look it certainly is strange, outri^ and somewhat eerie.
It has no beak to speak of, and when seen in front directly, it really
seems, wilh its bright, wide-open eyes, like some vcird and eerie
cllin thing, more especially if sitting, as it invariably does, not across
as true pcrchcrs do, but lengthwise on the branch of a tree, or
brooding on n'hat passes for its nest in a little depression on the
bare ground. Hundreds of times have I seen it, flat, scarcely notice-
able on a tree^ and sometimes when it became certain it was seen, it
would run up or along the branch like a little quadruped — or some
new species, say a tree vole— to disappear on another branch, putting
the trtmk between it and you. Its mouth is carried far back, and is
wide — the biggest mouth of any bird, whatever its size— and on the
upper part of the beak it is armed with a drooping row of peculiar
spine-like appendages or bristles (really quills or undeveloped
feathers). Its stretch of wing is remarkable for the size of its body,
and its flight is very silent, due to the presence of soft downy
swathes on the breast, under the wings, and over the l^s, which are
short, so that only the toes are visible. And the toes — particularly
the middle toe — are unhke those of most other birds. This middle
toe is elongated out of all true proportion in the lower joint, and is
furnished with a kind of comb-like flange or fringe, about the true
purpose of which, as we shall see immediately, naturalists have had
many different notions and theories, but have as yet come to no real
agreement or conclusion on the point. The best theory with regard
to the purpose of this special feature is that it is employed to dean or
clear from its mouth the dibris of moths and beetles, which is apt to
remain fastened there by the gummy substance with which it lines its
mouth, to make the surer of keeping what it has caught as it flies
round and round, for, being strictly crepuscular, its time for catching
prey is comparatively short, especially when it has young to feed.

The Nightjar is a bird of the twilight or eve rather than of the
night (though on moonlight nights our Nightjar can work on into
the night), and is exceedingly shy and secluded. The plumage is a
mixture of moorland tints— the ash-grey, brown, and yellow of furze,
firs, and ferns, with dim blotchings here and there Ukc the russet of
fading leaves. By loosening out its feathers a little and lying flat it

A Study of Nightjars,

can exactly match a grey weathered post-top or rail. It will lie
along the top of a post or along a rail as well as on the branch of a
tree precisely as though the bird were a part of it, and thus will lie
secure in the sense of protective hues till you actually put out your
hand to touch it. During the day it scoops out a slight hollow in
the earth or among leaves, and lies there matching them exactly.
Mr. Hudson admirably says ;

" During the daylight hours he sits on the ground among bracken

or heather, or by the side of a furze-bush, or in some open place

where there is no shelter; but so long as he remains motionless it is all

but impossible to detect him, so closely does he resemble the earth

in colour. And here we see the advantage of his peculiar colouring

I -^the various soft shades of buff and brown and grey which, at a

[short distance, harmonise with the surroundings and render him

' invisible." '

HI.

Its name of goatsucker in nearly all tongues, from the Greek
Aiyotf^Xof, Latin Caprimulgus^ Italian Succiacapre^ Spanish Chota-
£<ibraSy French Tette-c^rc, down to the German Zie^nmelker,
attests how extensively it has been associated with goat-sucking. A
very good authority says :

"The name of goat-suclcer is common to many of the modern
£uro[)ean languages, as it was to the Grecian and Roman of old, and

^was probably taken from the large size of the mouth, which must
have appeared unnecessarily large for any ordinary diet In Engbnd
they are sometimes called Nightjars or eve-jars, fern-owls, or night-
hawks. The tumcs show the popular idea of affinity to the birds of
prey, which Vigors, Swainson, and other ornithologists insist on being

'the case, and which certiinly ap[iears to have some foundation in
naturt;, the resemblances being more than those of simple analogy." "
Mr. Ruskin prettily says :

" I keep the usual name Nightjar, euphonious for night-churr,
from its continuous note like the sound of a spinning-whccl. ... I
had at first thought of calling it Jiirundi) noctuma ; but this would
be loo broad massing ; for although the creature is more swallow than
owl, living wholly on insects, it must be properly held a distinct
species from both. . . . Owls cannot gape like constrictors; nor have
swallows whiskers or beards, or combs to keep both in order with,
on their middle toes," '

> Sritiik Birds, p. i8o. » JcrdoD, 1 p. 187. ' iMt'i AfelHU, p. aoi.

144

The GentkntatCs Magazine.

Professor A. Newton says that it is called the wheel-bird from its
making a noise UIec that of a spinning-vheeL' Our idea, however^
rather is that it is so called because of its very noticeable and
characteristic wheel-like motion round the lops of certain trees and
bushes, as we have mentioned.

As to its name of goat-sucker, it is derived from the universality
of the early notion that the bird really did suck or milk the goats*
its form of mouth being held fitted for such an indulgence.

A much more probable reason for the name, however, is the habit
of the bird in certain situations to go flying about the recumbent
herds — goats, sheep, or even kine — and, with the utmost dexterity,
picking up and off certain insects— favourite insects with it— which
gathered about them. WTiite of Selborne noted this, and Waterton
followed suit, and celcbraled it finely, apostrophising the bird thus :

" Poor, injured little bird of night, how sadly hast thou sufferec^
and how foul a slain has inattention to facts put upon thy character t
Thou hast never robbed man of any part of his property nor deprived
the kid of a drop of milk. W'hen tlie moon shines bright you may
have a fair opportunity of examining the goat -sucker. You will see
it close by tlie cows, goats, and sheep, jumping up e\*cry now and
then under their bellies. Approich a little nearer. Sec how the
nocturnal flies go tormenting the herd, and with wliat dexterity he
springs up and catches them as fast as they alight on the bellies, legs,
and udders of the animals."

The fishermen of the Norfolk Broads, as Mr. Emerson tells us,
call the Nightjar the "razor^rinder " because of the noise it makes,
and one of ihcm pictured him as " sittin' along o' the branch as if he
were glued to it."

W'iuLe was one of the first carefully to study the fern-owl, as he
calls it. He says :

" This bird is most punctual in beginning its song exactly at tiie
close of day, so exactly that I have known it strike more than once
or twice just at the report of the Portsmouth evening gun, which we
can hear when the weather is still. ... I have always found that
though sometimes it may chatter as it flies, as I know it does, yet, in
general, Jt utters its jarring note .sitting on a t>ough \ and I have for
many a half-hour watched it as H sat with its under mandible
quivering. ... As my neighbours were assembled in an hermitage
on the side of a steep hill where we drink lea, one of these chum-
owls came and settled on the cross of that little straw ediiice and
began to chatter, and continued his note for many minutes ; and we

> VUHcnofy of Bh^t, UL (t. 6y^

Siudy of Nightjars.

were an struck with wonder to 6nd tluLt the organs of that little
aninuU, when put in motion, gave ft sensible vibration to (he whole
boildiiig.''

IV.

If you go and sit in certain places favoured by it, quite still, in
the twilight, you will be sure to see it circling round the tops of tbo
Trees it favoars — firs and oais and hazel stubs— and you will be iurc;
when you do not see the bird> to hear its peculiar tumhf rnonotonout
chur-r-r, chur-r-r, something like a telegraph instrument as luu l)cen
well said» or occasionally striking its wings across its back| making an
odd sound as it silently wings its way, with wide gape, ready to idm
the moths and beetles and other night-flying insects, in which proceu
it is much helped by a kind of glutinous secretion with which it co\'er»
the greater part of its mouth and the inside of the bristles or quills,
on which the insects ore, so to speak, glued as soon as they touch.
If it comes dose to you, and notices you in flight, it is not unlikely
that, by a sudden striking of its i^nngs, in some way special to Itself,
over its back, you will hear one of the most ghostly sounds, and
cease to wonder, as you had done before, at the superstitious fou felt
at these sounds by the rustics in many places, tJiough the main pur-
pose of this, some think, is to frighten certain moths and beetles from
their hiding-places.

Instead, however, of being an enemy to formers or foresters it is;
as said already, one of their greatest friends, for it destroys both the
eggs and the larvae of many insects which are very destructive to
some plants and to the wood of some trees— heavy beetles among
them, and, more especially, the cockchafer, Macgillivray found
that it devoured certain caterpillars, and Sccbohm held that it ato
slugs ; as neither of these are flying creatures, but are frequently to
be found in crevices or covered over with earth, this lends some
cotmtenancc to Dr. Bowdler Sharpe's suggestion that the pectinated
claw may be for service in this way— that is, scratching up earth to
get at this prey.

It has, too, a habit of circhng round tlie tops of certain trees.

Mr. Meyer, in his " Birds of Great Britain," has noticed in a
felicitous manner some of the habits and motions of the Nightjars
He writes :

"When in pursuit of thdr prey, which chiefly consists of moths
and other nocturnal insects, we have seen ihcm fly round a bush or
tree as a moth does round the flame of a candle, or like the swallows
in iweeping round high and low, and falling over in the manner of

146

Tlie Gentkmads Magazine,

tumbler pigeonsi or rolling in the air like a ship at sea or a kite in a
changing wind. It is beautiful, indeed, to watch the^e birds and
easy to approach tlicm very nearly, as they seem to take hardly any
notice of an observer, and where they have a brood the pair will fly
so close that the wind produced by the movement of their wings may
be plainly felt." ^

Mr. Meyer is perfectly right in this — a movement which I have
observed hundreds of times ; and in writing of Mr. Kcarlon's " Birds
and Uieir Nests " shortly afler its publication I pointed out this fact
to him as being a characteristic one about the bird, in addition to
its mode of hunting over open, fern, or whortleberry clad slopes. Wiite
of Selbornc also noticed this, speaking of its flying round the oaks.
"Fern-owls," he wrote, "have attachments to oaks, no doubt on
account of food."

When speaking about the gummy saliva with which the Nightjar
now coats or lines the inside of its moutli, more especially when
hunting during the brooding season, so much was suggested that we
could not then possibly say all we wished to say without breaking
the thread. Tliat gummy saliva points, in our idea, to much. The
Nightjar, which certainly in some traits resembles the swallows, was
once a nest-builder like them, and used this saliva to aid it in the
firming of its nest ; but owing to changes and the increasing difficulty
of finding sufficient food in the short hours it has for hunting, it now
needs, at all events in the breeding season, to economise this gummy
saliva for the great purpose of aiding it, not so much to catch the food,
OS to keep it secure in its mouth till, with it, the bird can feed its young
ones. And to make this quite plain we must refer to certain things
in the tongue of these as well as of some other insect-eating birds.

V.
The tongues of almost all insect-eaters bear, towards the base,
numerous papillce — blunter or more spiny — and the object of these ap-
pears to be to work the foodaulomaticallytowards the gullet. Further-
more, there is often a plenteous supply of sharp, back wardly -directed
points about tbe glottis— all there that tlic food may be aided to glide
safely past the windpipe and swallowed while the bird is in flight.
The tongues of owls, some of which arc insect-eaters as well as mice-
and bird-eaters, are uitermediate between those of the goat-suckers
and the diurnal birds of prey, being rather fleshy and armed with small
spines on the posterior half. This wc learn from that admirable bird
anatomist, Mr. Lucas^ of the Smithsonian Institution, Washington.
' Biritt U. p. 191.

A Stmfy 0/

147

^ will
■ any

TbetoBgoes of the woodpeciea an dighdy bwbcd on ciibersida
■t IkK txEK sod «i& the nppcz sBrfKX covered with l»ckimn%MSiivcte<d
SfmcA s> minme that it needs a magoiiying gjbss lo aee tbcm

Tbe tODgae of Ibe N«gfa^, being rttf dt&akdf so baibe4 u
fliBiidiwnblyadiptedtoitsaiiodeorprociiringfoodand feedir^as
it fie&. Bat viiieD it has its jtNtog to feed and does not wish to
•■■liw vfaat it catcbes in its ftjgfat, k mast have means of slopping
or Rtai^ng the action of these papOhe, mhkh, ooce tooched, voold^
so to say, automaticallj work ibe food towards the gullet Ttus
mart, of course, be the case with all birds of this ukscct-fcoding class,
and oor opinioa is that, then more especially, the guiu is required lo
fix the insects caught in the mouth, so that the action of these
papflfae nay not be excited by touch, and that without this gum — at
that time more especially, and tolerably hbentlly secreted too — it could
not succeed, or at all e\-enis succeed nearly so well, in keeping intact
the prey caught in its coroparatit'ely short twilight or crcning hunting
mofcment for its young ones.

VI.

Tbe Nightjar makes no nest, but b}*s its ^gs in a slight
depression on tbe bare ground in the sand, or on the dry grass
and twigs at the foot of a trec^ in whidi it diiefly lies, the eggs
— generally two and never more, and sometimes indeed only one —
being of a colour so like to that on which they arc placed that the)' arc
not easily recognised. They arc pcarly-whitc at base, with leaden
streaks and moltlings of dusty brown and umber, the very colour of
the decaying vegetation of the heathy, ferny, or waste land it favours.
One may go past them over and over again, and even tread on them,
without having seen them. They are as wondrously protected w
any eggs. And yet Dr. Russel Wallace has these remarks on this

inl:

" Many other birds lay their white eggs in open nests, and these
a/Iotd some very interesting examples of the varied modes by which
concealment may be attained. All the duck tribe, the grebes, and
the pheasants belong to this cbss, but these birds Iiavu all the habit
of covering their eggs with dead leaves and other material whenever
they leave the nest so as cflcctually lo conceal them. Other birds,
as tltc short-eared owl, the goat-sucker, the partridge, and some of the
Australian ground pigeons, lay their white or pale eggs on the bare
soil ; but in these cases Uie birds tliemselvcs arc protectively coloured,

248

Th$ Gentleman's Magazine,

so that when sitting they are almost invisible ; but they have the habiL
of sitting close and almost continuously, thus effectually concealing
their eggs."

But how can it properly be said, as Dr. Wallace says above, that
our Nightjar's eggs are white or pale ? They are blotched and spotted
exactly like the soil or dried grass or fern on which they may be laid,
and are not white or pale.

The bird's devices to decoy any intruder from its eggs or young
are really wonderful. It will flutter and circle, and trail itself, as if
on the lips of its broken wings, along the ground, will feign to have
wounded itself or been wounded, and in some cases for a short time
will lie quite still, as though dead» till you advance close to it, and
then it is off again, as if half-he!pless with broken wing. The
^shortness of its legs enables it apparently to roll over and rest for a
■ inoment on the tips of its wings, as it were. Very probably it will
succeed in its devices, unless you are very experienced and expert
Indeed, it will try to frighten you, and will, as if by conscious
mimicry, assume its most hawk -like aspect, and brush suddenly right
Against your face^ as if it knew that thus it might repel where other
means bad failed.

When sitting on eggs the bird has the power of assuming, in a
kreally striking and wonderful way, the appearance of a rude stmnpi
and as its eyes alone would, by their clearness, destroy this illusion,
the instinct of closing or almost closing them when anyone comes
near is brought into play— an instinct which the young ones, from the
very egg c\*cn, seem to share.

Whence come these wonderful instincts, this special knowledge

I so well applied and so well fitted to secure the existence of this

t creature, so much exposed as it would seem in other ways? No one

can tell ; but in it the protective resources which arc found in the

klapwings and other birds are developed to the full, though from its

greater rarity, its seclusion in wooded areas or bushy slopes, and its

nocturnal habits, there are comparatively few who have observed

tthem.

Mr. Norgate tells' how, on August 6 at Beeston R^is, he found
a young Nightjar about the size of a starling and without feathers.
* An old Nightjar fluttered away from it along the ground, apparently
|carrying something about the size of the young one in its mouth.
)n returning to the spot I found the old bird and two young ones.
Two or three days afterwards I looked in vain for them, and suppose
he old one had lemOT'cd them both."

• Z90i«gisi^ 1884.

A Study of Nighijars.

149

He also tells of Mr. Baker, Cambridge, and Mr. Qough
Newcomc, at Feltwell, finding a dutch of two Nightjar's eggs j that
Mr. Baker touched one and wished to take them away, but left them
tni he should return. Mr. Newcome said the old one would remove
them after handling, and when ihey returned the eggs were gone.

"On the other hand, last year, when a Nightjar was hatching and
rearing a second clutch, with the assistance (a very close company)
of two older young ones, near my house, she was visited and
disturbed day after day for weeks, but I could never sec that the
young were shifted more than a yard or two ; possibly they crawled
that distance when hungry to meet the mother, for they are much
more active with their feet than they appear to be before they are
disturbed. After the young were able to fly a few yards they returned
to about the same spot where they were hatched. My attention was
called to this double brood on July 13, when a gamekeeper stated
he had seen two young ' night-hawks * about a fortnight ago, and
told me where to find them, which I did the same day. Three
Nightjars fiew up from the same spot. The two young ones were
greyer and lighter in colour than the old bird, which feigned lameness
considerably, fiuttering along the ground, and often alighdng very
near roe.

** On looking at the place whence they rose, I found two Nightjar's
^s much sat upon ; one was chipped The next day I saw the
old female and two young ones fly up together from the two ^gs.
The same day, at a few hundred yards' distance, I found another
female Nightjar sitting on two downy young ones, about three days
old. On the 19th I inspected the double brood and again saw the
old one fly off from two very small downy young ones, the eggs being
hatched and the eggshells lying near.

" I did not see the fledged young of the former brood on the
19th, but the next day one of them flew up with the mother from the
newly-hatched young ones.

"On August 7 I saw the old one and the two last hatched young
ones fly from the spot where they were hatched, or within a yard or two
of it, for they had shifted iheir home a few feet now and then. I also
saw a fourth bird— evidently one of the older young ones of the former
brood — fly from a spot about three yards from the others.

" I never saw more than two Nightjar's eggs in one clutch, but I
have beard of a brood of three young ones found. ... On June 29,
j8j6, in Hockering Wood, I saw a female Nightjar sitting on her
two young ones, which were nearly feathered. The old bird, on my
approach, remained motionlcssi except that it closed — or nearlY

I50

The GtnilematCs Magazine.

closed — its large eyes, or at any rate that eye that I could see, as if
it was aware that its eyes were the most conspicuous part of it."

And Mr. Norgate, in view of all the facts narrated in that
admirable article, thus sums up his results :

"The foregoing notes show that the Nightjar arrives here in the
second week in >ray, or earlier, and lays its two eggs as early as the
list week in May, and as late as the first week in July, or later, as
some of those mentioned were found unhatched in the first week in
August ; that its young are hatched pretty early in June, and are
nearly able to fly by the 28th of that month ; that it occasionally
raises more than one brood, one brood apparently assisting in
keeping the eggs of a later brood warm ; that the late brood fly well
by the first week in August ; and lastly, that the Nightjar remains
here till the middle of September, and has been seen on the wing as
late as the middle of October."

Mr. J, H. Gumcy says that he feels sure the Nightjar has two
broods in Norfolk.^

VII,

The Nightjar, though pretty widely distributed in our country, is
very capricious as to the spots that suit it. In most of the home
counties — that is, the counties immediately round Ixindon — it is found.
Wimbledon Common, at certain secluded parts, is visited ; Holm-
wood Common, in Surrey, is a good spot for study ; and at Epsom
and all round Leith Hill, and along the Surrey hills everywhere
thereabout, ample opportunities for observation and study of its
habits present themselves ; and many a twilight hour near Leith
Hill, in Mosse's Wood and in Mr. Pennington's coppices and park,
have I lain and watched it on summer nights in years bygone ; and
never were hours of mine belter spent or more fully rewarded. It
visits some parts of Kent and Essex, and the southern portion of
Herefordshire and Wilts, Yet very often in places which would
seem quite as suitable for it >*ou search for it and do not find it.
If you do catch a gh'mpse of it on tree-branch or rail or weathered
post-top, you will see that its bright, clear, wide-open eyes, by
instinct it closes to mere slits. It is very fond of dusting itself in
tlie cart tracks of roadways. Often have I seen it doing this near
Cold Harbour, Dorking, and at Chiiworlh, and down near Haslemcrc.
The young ones newly-hatched have by instinct the same power or
knowledge, and close the little eyes to mere slits. They are feathered
with soft downy first feathers, and can run soon after batching.
* ZMhgisIt 1S83, p. 439.

A Study of Nightjars.

J5«

vnt

Various theories, as wc have seen, have been advanced to account
ror the long pectinated middle claw, some holding that it Is for the
purpose of cleaning the feathers, the shortness of its beak [naking
the mouth hardly effective for this purpose. Dr. Bowdler Sharpc
tells that his friend Dr. Giinther had kept young Nightjars in confine-
ment, and had never noticed tliem use this claw for anything but to
scntcb on chair or floor where they chanced to be. But I would
lay zkO weight on any such obsenation of young creatures in confuic-
ment, and for a very good reason, even though Dr. Giinther reported
iL Dr. Bowdler Sharpe, however, led to it by tins suggestion, thinks
U may be a useful appendage for scratching or distributing the cnrtli
for the purpose of seeking its food.

Dresser thinks that the pectinated claw is for disengaging iJic
hooked feet of beetles from the bill, to enable the bird to swallow
tbem.^ This same pectination is, however, found more or less in the
cbws of different species, the bittern and gannet, which have no
bristles at the base of the bill, and the herons and barn-owls. All
these birds arc fish- or flesh- or offal -feeding, and our idea is that in
all these cases the pectinated claw has to do with cleaning the mouth
from floury dust panicles adhering in consequence of the gummy
saliva mote or less apt to cover It as the food Is passed down.

IX.

le Nightjar does not stay long with us. It does not arrive liH
the middle of May, one of the latest reluming migmnts, and it
ckparts usually early in September, though it is sometimes un-
accountably later than this in certain localities. But, generally, it
may be said that, if it comes later than the nightingale, it goes wriih
it to softer, sunnier cUmes, where some supply of its favourite food
may still be found. It does no more than by its eggs and rear its
brood ; then it migrates. How the ** little pinch of down," grown to
some semblance of the parent bird^ manages the long, long flight if
a mystery \ but it does.

Mr. Howard Saunders says that eggs of the Nightjar, which usually

leaves in September, have been found as late as August 1 2.* In that

case, if the adult bird stayed to hatch the eggs and rear its young

ones, it could not have migrated till the beginning of October. X

• BirJj^ Iv. adl«e. * MohuhI, p. 258,

«s»

The GcntUntans Magazine,

once saw two Nightjars near I^cith Hill m the middle of October,
and once I saw one near Clul worth — on the main road, of all places I
— on October lo, the season that year having up to then remained
exceedingly mtld and warm.

This fact is rather against than in favour of UTiitc of Selbome's
assertion that invariably " each pair breed but once in a summer."

But, as in all other cases, much must be due to special circum*
stances, to air and climate, in the determination of dates of migratioD ;
for Mr. Cecil Smith, in his "Birds of Guernsey," cites Miss Carey's
report in the "2^1ogist" for 1872, of the Nightjar having remained
in the island till October 16, and he says he had himself killed one
as late as November 12 ; this bird had its stomach crammed with
small-winged blackbeetles (not house beetles). These dates are
much later than the Nightjar usually remains in England, though
Yarrcll notices one in Devon as late as November 6, and one in
Cornwall on November 27. Colonel Irby, on the report of Fabier^
says the Nightjars cross the Straits of Gibraltar, on their southward
journey, from September to November.

Macgillivray says that the whirring sound is produced when the
bird is sitting. " After having been engaged for twenty-eight minutes
in capturing his prey, and whistling now and then whilst doing so, he
sat upon the top of a tree and whirred six minutes without inter-
mission." This was on a Wednesday evening, June 5. As WTiite
said, when flying it utters frequently a peculiar note. Mr. Seebobm
has rendered this as to-ic co-U^ but to our ears was rather more of
£^U co-it.

Mr. MacIIwrailh, in his useful and valuable *' Birds of Ontario,"'
quotes the following lines from what he calls " the unromantic
plains of Chatham " :

With half-closed e^es and quivering boom.
Descending Uiro' the deepemog gloom,
like plunuDCt filing firom the iky,
'W'here some poor moth xoay vsinly txy

A goal to wia—
He holds him with his glittering eye.

And scoops him in.

Taking this fact of the closing of the eyes when an intruder draws
near, and looking through the merest slit, along with this other iact

' P. «56.

A Study of Nightjars,

that, when bunting, it really does half-close its eyes, as is told us in
the Chatham verse, I have often thought that, as in the case of many
short-sighied people, it gains clearness of vision for small things not
just quite nearband by this drawing together of the eyelids; and in
this too, as much as in anything else, may He the reason that, when
hunting, it will allow you to come so very near to it that the " wind
produced by the movement of its wings may even be plainly felt." I
have stood on the ferny slopes above Cold Harbour, near Leith Hill,
and seen it, if one may use the phrase, "quartering " the ground in
a peculiar triangular manner — by double zigzags, so to say. Standing
quite still at one point, the bird would sometimes pass me so close
on the side that I felt the wind of its wings, and then after the lapse
of a few minutes, it passed mc on the other side, in this very
peculiar process of " quartering," about which there can be no doubt
whatever. The flight being silenced or softened by swathes of soft
feathers under the wings, as we have seen, this adds much to its
apparent " buoyancy of flight " which Mr. Dewar has well celebrated.
" The buoyancy of the Nightjar's flight surpassed that of any bird I
bad ever seen ; it was full of grace." ^

XI.

As in the cases of many other species of birds, the most outri^
interesting, and curious traits are found in foreign species. This
makes the work of comparative ornithology very attractive. The
further you extend your survey in other lands— not to say from
China to Peru— the morej[ remarkable^ things you meet — remarkable
in themselves and remarkable also* in their lelalions to conditions,
circumstances, &c

My studies of Nightjars in England, precisely as in the case of
cuckoos and dabchicks,^led mc to study some foreign species. I first
turned to India. There, I found that in the Nilghri Hills, where, in
certain parts at all events, the sun heat is much greater than with
us, the Nightjars seemed to apprehend and to ulflisc this fact, and to
make heat directly aid them injlhe work of incubation. This is the
case with many birdsjbcsidcs some of the mound birds— with the
dabchicks more especially. This we shall find well borne out by
the report of a most reliable authority, who has made very raluable
contributions to Indian ornithology— Miss Coclcburn, who, writing
from Khotagherry, says of the Nilghri Nightjar {Caprimulgus
Ktlarti) :

** This Nightjar nc%'cr builds a nest, but laj-s' her eggs (generally

' WtULsfi iH i/amfihirt JIigkhn4st p. 82.
voifl ccxcr. sa iOfS. -^

<54

Tfte Genlktnans Magazine*

tiro ia number) on the bare ground^ and occasionally on a shelf of
rock, where there is not the slightest appearance of anything
resembling a bush to shade the bird from the searching rays of the
sun while engaged in the work of incubating. She evidt-nlly
prefers heat ; and for this purpose chooses very warm locaUiies.
This bird is often contented with only one egg, which it is supposed
to have the instinct to remove to another place if looked at too
frequently by man. The business of hatching is api\arently left
rcntirely to the female, as she alone is seen near the eggs. The
INightjar's eggs are found in the months of February, March, and
April. Some of them are perfectly oval ; others are thicker at one
end than the other. I know of no bird's eggs whose colours (adc
BO very much if kept after being blown. When first taken, the
prevailing hue is a beautiful salmon-colour, with large blotches of a
darker shade ; but in a short time they lose their freshness." '

The American night-hawk, as we shall soon see from Thorcau's

account, is inclined to brood its eggs on bare rocky shelves on

•slopes. In this it resembles apparently Caprimulpts Kelarti of the

"Wilghri Hills, though whether the same motive of deriving from the

'Sunheat aid to incubation is a motive we cannot undertake positively

"to say. We should think, however, this motive in America, where

the heat in summer in certain parts is intense, is very likely indeed

with such a bird to have play.

Some of the Indian Nightjars produce the most beautiful eggs of

^1 the species. This especially applies to the eggs of Caprimufgns

,andamanensiSi which differ from those of any other Indian species,

•■"The ground colour," says Mr. Hume,* "is a delicate salmon-pink,

mottled and streaked and ornamented with zigzag and hieroglyphic*

like lines of a darker and somewhat purplish pink."

xn.

Nightjars are very capricious in distribution everywhere as well
as in England. Mr. F. Lewis tells in the " Ibis," in an article on the
Land Birds of SalTamgamuwa Province, Ceylon, that he has observed
a very curious break in the distribution of the bird there. "It is
found in abundance in and around the Uttle village of Vcralupe,
adjoining the town of Ratnapura ; but half a mile to the east it does
not occur, and a little distance beyond it again appears in numbers.

* Hume, Ui. p. 42. The fact but noted abov* U ftDOtbcf waxiung ngunsl
ilnaibiRe egS^ loo absolutely from spedmens foimcJ ia caUoets— even BcUlsh
Mtueum cafalaets.

• Siraj FsatAtrXt t p. 471.

A Study of Nigkijan. 155

I can find no exphnatioo for this cazioos pbenosKnon, thoqgh I
bare waicbed tbe cas« with curiosity for sotne xeus.* >

Caprimstiius mairurm^ or higD'ti[3ed gOAt^acker, is the only true
Kig^tj&r yet discoreml is Ansbaln. It was fiwod at Port V-«^ftg«'-»_
by ilr Gilbert, frcquentizig the open forest, and socMtiiDes ia deoK
thickets, sheltering itself m>der a bo&h or tnfi of dead leares on the
surface of the groand, in which position it sts so doce that it may
be almost trodden opon before making any eadeavoar to escape ;
bat, on taking wing, it flies with amaring swiftness and with a agng
motion, suddenly dropping into aone near place of conoeafancnL
Ii is said to breed in October. From the plate given by Mr. Gilbal^
(be rictal bristles in this species are very Icn^ and incline fiHwtrd
when the bird is at rest In general habits it dosdy resembles
our own Nightjar ; but Bronowski says that it invariably lays but one
cg^ and lays it on the bare ground.

The "more-pork," or tawny frogmouth of Anstralia, more es-
pecsally of Western Australia, is scientifically Podarpts sirigotdes^
«im) is perhaps the nearest of all the other varieties to the true
N^htjar. It is said to have been called "more-pork " from its cry,
wrfaich was thought to be very near to that ; but the " U'cstcm
Australian Museum Guide " says this is an error — that the more-
pork call is really the cry of the boobook owl {Xinok 600600A)
which was at first wrongly attributed to this Nightjar. At another
place this is added : " For years the cry of the boobook owl (* more-
pork ') was attributed to the tawny frogmouth {Fo<fargus\ which
has quite a different note."* The tawny frogmouth has some
, notable characteristics, just departing sufficiently, and no more, from

^K the normal traits of the common Nightjars. This makes them the
^M more interesting in themselves and the more worthy of study. My
H friend, Mrs. Pcggs, who has resided for some years in Roebuck llay,
H has described the bird there to me thus :

B " It is grey-green ; its ftathers appear to stick quite out from the

H bdrd, and, when resting on a tree along the branch, it is almost
^k indisdngnishable from a portion of the branch, and ttiis habit of
H itself would sulEce to class the- bird. It is said sometimes to lay its
H two eggs or its one egg on the bare ground, and tometimes to Cnd
^H accommodatioa in tbe hole of a tree or a disused, rough tiest of

^1 ■ I^^ Jttly 1S9S, p. 356. * Guidi 10 tt^itttm AusiralioH Miutum, p, 27.

IS6

The GeniiematCs Magazine,

another bird. The ' more- pork ' cry is certainly not used when the
bird is surprised by too close an approach. I have never heard ft
give that cry when I surprised it ; then it gives a very different cty,
hard to dcsai be— something between a hiss and a squeak. It very
seldom takes prey on the vring, but searches for it on the ground."

Podar^s strigoides literally means "owl-like swift-fool," and the
narac " frogtnouths " has been given to the whole genera, while
one variety has been expressly called Balraehostoma^ so that the
round mouth and open gape is found in them all, suggesting
that neither one nor other did originally search for its main food on
the ground, though that habit has developed a harder, thicker bill,
the presumption being that they all originally caught it in flight like
our own true Nightjars, and that probably differentiation has pro-
ceeded in this way along with increase in size, &c., to protect the
species from certain owls or eagle owls. The nocturnal habit has
also in some of the varieties been much modified.

If, however, Australia has, so far as we yet know, but one true
Nightjar, it has a further number of birds closely allied, yet with
traits of the owls — indicating thus, it may be, a link between these
species. In structure, plumage, and aspect they are Nightjars, the
owl affinities lying more in habit than in appearance. They are
called owlet Nightjars— one of them, scientifically ^i^otheUs JVbvm-
Holhnda^ departs from the practice of northern Nightjars by nesting
in holes or spouls of trees— more particularly of the gum-trees, and
in perching across, not parallel to, a branch. In the nesting in
holes it has reached a habit fixed and uniform, which with the
" more-pork " is as yet but occasional. Its flight ia straight, and
not at all marked by the sudden twists and turns and ligzags that
distinguish the Eiirojjcan Nightjars. B^ono^vski tells how it may be
disturbed and seen by tapping at the lase of rotten or hollow trees,
when one or other of tl^c birds will put its head out of the hole, just
as a human being would put head out of door or window, on any
unusual noise being heard, to see what is the mniier.

Another is the white-bellied Nightjar, ^^thetes ieucogaster^ larger
and more powerful than the owlet, and strictly nocturnal in its habits,
which the owlel hardly is.

Dr. Russel Wallace makes reference to the peculiar habits of the
Australian /Wu/yn"— huge goat-suckers, which build nests very similar
to woodpigcons', and their eggs are protected much as the wood^
pigeons* are >— but unfortunately he does not, or cftnnot, tell t»
much mote of thcra»

A Simdy of Nightjars^ 157

In his work on ** DistribotioD of Plants and Animals," Dr. Rossd
Wallace tdb ns that the Nigh^axs do not readi New Zealand, irtuch,
GODsideTing that the species in seroal of its varieties is well repre-
sented in AostiaUa, is die more snrprisiDg. Dr. Wallace also tells
us of a new and rematkable varietr called SteaiorMis, irtiich is more
rdated to tiie goat-sndbos dian to any other q»edes. It was first
disoOToed by Homboidt in a caTera at Veoexuda, and it has since
been foond in caves and deep laTines in Trinidad and otbo- parts of
die West Indies. The most remarkable thing about it is that it is
a vegetable feeder, whidi a bird that has bq^n, as the more-
poika or frogmooths have doo^ to find all its food on the ground^
is most certainly on the way, in a modified foshioo, to become.

Dr. Wallace^ in his " DistributicHi of Plants and Animals," tells
us also that the {rfants of New Zealand are mostly dull in colours of
flowers^ being wind- and not insect-fertilised, and be adds that insects
there are scarce: This would account for the lack of bright-coloured
and ccHispicuous flowers, as well as for the absence of Ni^tjai^
idiicb^ if they were there; would have to adopt some of the haluts
of ceitun of the Australian Nightjars, and cease to catch prey on the
wii^ and to search for it on the ground, so becoming more and more
vegetable feeders. Thus do all things in Nature hang together : no
sceated w bright-coloured flowers means few insects ; no insects
means no purely insectivorous birds. Nightjars or others, just as Mr.
Darwin proved that where there were old maids with cat^ there would
be plenty of humble bees.

XIV.

The common night-hawk of America, as it is called there, and
sometimes the Virginian goat-sucker, is scientifically Chorddia^
mrgiiiuiHuSt and is very dose to our common Nightjar. Thoreau
had his own special exp^ences to record with regard to it. In his
Diaiy, under date June 7, we find him writing :

** Visited my night-hawk on her nest. Could hardly believe my
eyes when I stood within seven feet and beheld her sitting on her
eggs^ her head towards me ; she looked so satumian, so one with the
earth ; so sphinx-like, a relic of the reign of Saturn, which Jupiter
did not destroy, a riddle that might well cause a man to go dash

■ The origin of this wonl is u follows : xvH^f^^**^* * ttringtd mnrickl
fautnmeiit, SftA^aeTening— which shows that the oiilier obwrven had ■ fucy
for findiiig nranc In the note, caUias the bird " ereQing moiical initniine&t."

1S8

Tim Gcnihmans Magazine^

his head against a stone. It was not an actual living creature of tfie"
air, but a figure in stone or bronze, a fanciful production of art, like
the grjrphon or the phcenlx. In fact, with its breast towards me, and
owing to its colour or size, no bill perceptible, it looked like the end
of a brand such as arc common in a clearing — its breast mottled or
alternately waved with dark brown and grey, its flat, greyish, weather-
beaten crown, its eyes nearly closed, purposely, lest those bright
beads should betray it : with the slony cunning of the sphinx. A
fanciful wurk in bronze to ornament a mantel. It is enough to fill
one with awe."

Again, under date July 22, he thus speaks of the young:^
bird:

"One of the night-hawk's eggs is hatched. The young is exactly
like a pinch of rabbit's fur or down of that colour, dropped on the
ground, not two inches long, with a dimpling, irregular arrangement
of minute feathers in the middle, destined to become its wings and
tail. Yet even it half-opened its eyes and peeped, if I mistake
not. Was ever bird more completely protected both by the colour
of its eggs, and of its own body that sits on them, and of the young
bird just hatched ? Accordingly, the eggs and young arc but rarely
discovered. There was one egg still, and by the side of it this little
pinch of down fluttered oul, and was not observed at first ; at foot,
down the hill, had rolled half the shell it had come out of There
was no callowness as in the young of most birds. It seemed a
singular place for a young bird to begin its life, this little pinch of
down, and lie still on the exact spot where the egg lay — a flat, exposed
shelf on the side of a bare hill, with nothing but the whole heavens,
the broad universe above, to brood it when its mother was away."

This name of Corddks^ however, has, with the newer school of
ornithologists, given place to Caf>rimul^us amen'canus ; and under
this designation we find Prince Buonaparte writing of them. He
says that " the night-hawks are among the swallows what the owls are
among the Falconida^ and, if we may be allowed the expression, tlie
C. amificanui has more of the hirundine look than the others.
When in woods or hawking near trees, the flight is made in glides
round the tops or branches, and often it will settle for a few seconds
on the very summit of the leading shoots. The eggs are of a dirty
bluish while, with blotches of dark olive-brown. During incubation
the male keeps a most vigilant watch round. In wet and gloomy
weather these birds are active all day," *

Dr. Elliot Coues says that if they do not circle tree-tops in flight

■ Wilson, pp. 371 ftod yi^

A Sludy of Nightjars,

«59

for capturing prejr, they quarter the air ; and he adds that one of the_
: may be hatched a good deal sooner than the olhcr. " I one

'^ found," he states, "an intcnal of three days elapse between llie"^
batching of the two eggs of the night-hawk. Nuttall fi})cak« of iho
night h^wk sometimes actually visiting towns, and then sailing round
chimnc>'s and other elevated stalks or points in circles.

The whiP'Poor-wiU is more familiar to us, since its singular cry
or call is often referred to by popular writers who arc not called on
to describe the bird or othcmisc to note its class or peculiarities It
has been at diflerent times differently ranged. Dr. Elliot Coue
writes :

" The common whip-poor-will has been referred back to the old
genus Caprimutguu >Vhilc it certainly differs from the chuck will'iJ
widow type of Antrosiomus in not having the rictal bristles garni-nhc
with lateral filaments and is not very obviously different frow^

\ Caprimulgxn of the old world, it may be best to keep it with
AntrostomuSy where all the Kew World species are usually referred,
until the limits of the respective genera arc better understood."*

From all we can gather, whip-poor-will (C vociftrm) is so nearly
allied to C. iarolinemis that an ordinary observer would never
distinguish them. Wilson notes how in the evening they will go

F skimming on the grass within a foot or two of a person as if never

^ seeing him, the eyes so intent on the insects hunted.

In the lower pan of the State of Delaware Kuttall found these

. birds troublesomely abundant at the breeding season. It was the

P reiterated cries of whip-poor-will, whip-pcri-will, issuing from several
birds at the same time, that caused such a confused vociferation as at

J first to banish sleep.' Nuttall notes another peculiarity of the whip-

riK30r-will, and tells us that this call, except on moonlit nights, iaX
continued usually till midnight, when they ceasCt until again arouscdj
for awhile at the commencement of twilight*

Nuttall, who dearly paid much and close attention to this bird,

^aIso tells us that the whip-poor-will is the only Nightjar which hasj
white, unspotted eggs ; and that both male and female take part ia {
Incubation. The young of this variety, as of the night-hawks and i
those wc have in England, are hatched downy — in this, as Dr. E.
Coues remarks, resembling the lower order of birds, and not the
higher with which they are associated. Tliis suggests more than one

^question — why, for instance, a bird so specialised and developed
fthould in this respect make itself a complete exception, so high, yet \

' Key, p. 449.
« nu. p. 74+.

> OmUMegy ef Vniitd Staiti, p. 379.

]6o

The Gentleman s Magazine.

so low, in this matter, which is no doubt correlated with its now
building no nest whatever. Only the more prominent parts on the
young are covered with this down ; the naked parts arc covered in
three or four da)'s, the inequality of the distribution of this down
which marlis all the Nightjar young, gives the dimpling character
which Thoreau noted in the young night-hawk when first seen by him.

Mr. Thomas Macllwraiih has given a pretty full account of the
night-hawks and whip-poor-wills in Canada. He says of the latter :

" It is seldom seen abroad by day, except when disturbed at its
resting-place in some shady part of the woods, when it glides off
noiselessly like a great moth. . . . Not unfrequently it perches on
the roof of a farmhouse, startling the inmates with its cry, which
they hear with great distinctness. This is the only song of the whip-
poor-wi]I» and it is kept up during the breeding season, after which it
is seldom heard."

Mr. Nuttall notes thisabout chuck-wiU's- widow (C Caro/inensis):

It commences its singular serenade in the evening soon after
sunset, and continues it with short interruptions for several hours.
Towards morning the note is renewed, until the opening dawn. In
a still evening this singular note will be heard for half a mile, its tones
being slower, louder, and more full than that of whip-poor-will.^

Audabon celebrates the sensitiveness of this bird :

" When the chuck-will's-widow, either male or female (for each
sits alternately), has discovered that the eggs have been touched,
it ruffles its feathers and appears extremely dejected for a minute or
two, after which it emits a low, murmuring cry, scarcely audible to
me, as I lay concealed at a distance not more than eighteen or
twenty yards. At this time I have seen the other parent reach the
spot, flying so low over the groimd that I thought its tittle feet must
have touched it as it skimmed along, and, after a few low notes and
some gesticulations, all indicative of great distress, take an egg in its
large mouth, the other bird doing the same, when they would fly off
together, skimming closely over the ground, until they disappeared
among the trees. He adds that the eggs, of a dull oUvc colour with
darker specks, are about the size of pigeons' eggs.

Mr- Gosse makes this note ;

" It wanted but a few minutes of midnight when suddenly the
clear and distinct voice of the chuck-will's-widow rose up from a
pomegranate tree in the garden below the window where I was
silling, and only a few yards from mc. It was exactly as if a "
being had spoken the words." '

* OnUtMf^, p. 74a ' Romsna 9/ Natmr«it BiHory^ p.

A Simdy 0fNigiijmrs, ifix

WatCftOD did not fcnet to uIhur. kA to Frrnrf on jomc 5*^^*^
AiDoicui ycciefc In tbe wcopd jwiiikj Sd Jfnamlmr& and
SnzO he writes:

** The pfcttiljr moflkd r*™'"j**^^V- gp■^fTT%r^•. TJartiM* nffhr
owlf mmts the fantre viooi s ocuuvisd is i^ *'*'^f 'f cf die IsidB flf
day. This at once mnks horn as a ]o«s of die joik: xdood^ js^i&g
ncams. There are mne ipcrJtshcre. T^ie '**'j^'^ *jjf-**y "rtry
the siae of the FngfiA voodnwl te aj b sDJonsikadib d&t^
hawing ODoe heard i^ yoa viO Bcm- fo^ ]L Hlben zqptt sbbk
over these iiiiinrjMijtte nilds^vfcfia }pDeis jfoor hmoBBE^Tm
wiD hear diic goat-aidKr hiiiriiiMig Ske one id dee^ dHDaem. A
stnuger vonld never ccDcehc 31 tobeliiecryofainEd. He vouid
say it 1IM the deyailiug voice cfanadiu^iHPOBndaedTacaap, cr &e
lastvaifingof Niobe far her poor f^nVfam i^Dce J&e was moKid
intostaae: Snpiiosc yocndf in huydci* soppwj teypyafljaiia^
load note and praooBoce ' Ha, hi, ha, ha, la, ha, ha,* tacii sole
kmerand lowtr till the laA is scarcxily heard, pnxBmc a «*'^'*^'*
betwiit evay note; and yoo viQ hzvr Bosae idea cf ihcanaaasfc^
the hugest goot-sodKr in Deaezaa.

" Four odierqiedescl' the soat-^zxia^' wrrr-^at-t tasut w«di »
dtstinctiy that they have jecriicd tfacarnaaoe* fecm &e«cascsK«*
they nttei; and absolntdy benlder die sataogs csi his anml is
these paits. The most toiniirai ob>£ lia dovs ctuse by ycmr dc«r,
and flies and a^^ three or fcior jzidi t^on: y^ic, as yvD ira3k
along the road, cxyin^ ' Who are y^s ; -vbrj, wijrj, -viio are ywj ? '
Another bads yoa * Woik away ; wodc, vgric, vcck avay/ Atlibd oics
moamfiilly.'Willy-coaie'go; WHj-WaEy-W^'j-ccaac^^^' Aadloti^
op in the ooontiy a fioonh tdb yoo to * yfiap^fK^cm^wiB ; vfaiji^ *h)p,
wUp-poor-nIL'

" Yoa win never pemsMk the n«gzD to destroy these Lordi, or fet
the Indian to let fly hsanov at than. They are birds of ooMxi and
reverential dicad. They are the receptacto for dqancd scwls who
conoe back again to eaxdi, or areesprtss^y sentby Jnniboor Yalofaos
to hanm cnid and baxdJieaited mastery and iculiate in|iiries ttcemd
from dtenL*

XV.

Dr. Freeman, in lus interesting book, "Asbanti and Jaman," has
a good deal to say about the fibmrnffd Nightjar of Wert Africa,
with its reoMikable CTititandiffg wing-liBathers. These^ as be ttj^

« Pp. 145^

l62

The Geniiemans Magazine.

arc caused by the quill of a feaiher from the carpus of each wing
being developed to an enormous length — fully t«*ice as long as the
bird's body. He was perfectly astonished when he first saw the bird
flying. It seemed that, at a distance from the bird, at each side
were two dark bodies like butterflies, or some other insect, and about
this matter at niglit he could by no means satisfy himself, as then the
elongated quill or featlier stalk was entiruly invisible, of course.
But afterwards he came upon the bird through the day because of a
habit it has of frequenting pathways, and there it would sit, with the
long wing-feathers directed straight up above it, till he was within a few
j-ards of it, then fly away, to advance farther up the path, and then
sit down, to go through exactly the same process as before. When
silting among the long grasses, which sometimes reach as high as
seventeen feet, and long-stemmed vegetation with feathery tops, this
Nightjar's filaracntcd feathers fall in well with the general uflcct-
the more, as with our own Nightjars, this blid tries to scratch
a depression beneath it— the fiJamented feathers rising up straight
over its back. It may be suggested that concealment in such
retreats, which it can always find, is tlu reason for this feather,
development At all events, there is no other more likely explanatio
as yet The general habits of this Niglitjar otherwise very closely"
resemble those of the Nightjar in England, which we know best.

XVI.

My old friend, Canon Tristram, was so good as to answer a
query of mine about the Nightjars of Palestine, to the following
effect : " So far as I had any opportunity of observing the habits of
the Palestine species of Nightjars, they do not in the slightest degree
vary from ours. They have the same trick of lying flat on a
horizontal rail or pole, and passing for a piece of wood. Thii only
eggs I took were on the bare ground, two in number.**

There are yet several points to settle about our common Night-
jar; so that young ornithologists who will specially devote themselves^
to it. and not grudge to give summer evenings patiently to watch and
study it, have sUU chances of distinguishing themselves and adding
to the accepted facts about a bird as interesting, strange, weird, and
unaccountable as any.

A Study of Nightjars. 163

APPENDIX.

I. If we knew more about the special habits of diflerent Tarieties of Ntghtjan*
we could at once make oar sorvey more pro6taU]r compantire, and perhaps
Tcadi come secrets of difieientiation or variation. Tbos the zigzag turnings and
drdii^ in flight, or "quarteiii^theair,** are common to all of the true Mightjan,
while those which have departed from this habit, like jEgstheUs Neva lUUandm,
have also ceased to be truly noctnmaL Ltttagasttr^ agsJn, whidi remains noc-
tnmal, still retains these marked diaracteristjcs in ffigbt, tbot^ mying from the
Dormal in some ways.

X Hare those Nightjars which, tike the so-called Anstraltan more-pork
occastonally, and Mgotheks Nova HdUuida systematically, seek their food on the
ground andare seldom on the wii^, been modified, and how Us, in bill andwing*
and m the pectinated toe t— whldi in that cue, if it is nsed for scratching up food
in earth, snails, gmbs, &c., would need to become strongeraswcll as the beak— n
process which, we believe, has aheady proceeded so fitf in the tawny Irogmouth,
and perhaps farther stiU in ^gothtUi Neva Hollands.

3. An important question arises : What modifications, if any, have been effected
in the young from the nesting-in-hole habits, as occasionally in the so-called more'
pork, and absolutely in Mffithdes and the Podargif which, as Dr. Wallace telU us,
bnild nests like wood-pigeons'? Are the yom^ still hatched downy or to the same
extent, or are observable modifications to be noted ?— the highly specialised bird
then comii^ more and more in this respect to rank itself with tlie hi^^er Urds
her^ while filing into other halats more like some <3S the lower birds.

4. We are told that the ^gs of the whip-poor-wills are pure white. Is
there anything special to this class in nestii^ or in variation of habit in regard to
I^aces in which they lay the eggs, since they are not colour-protected, as in the
case of most other Kightjais which lay thdr ^gs on the bare ground ? This
observation would be most ioteresting and helpful towards a theory of modified
haUts affecting coloration of e(^

5. The males of some species appear very closely to share the iocubatlon with
the females ; in others this is not so. Is there in this difference grounds for
pointil^ to differences in de^'elopment of certain parts, or is this either way un*
arrompsnifd by any modification, however slightly marked otherwise ?

ALEX. H. JAPP.

1^4

The Geniiemans Magazine,

NAPOLEON AND PRINCE
METTERNICH.

PRINCE METTERNICH was driving in Vienna one day dunr
the Congress of 1815, when the horses bolted, the carriage was'
overturned, and Mettcmich was thrown into the roadway. Finding
he had no bones broken he picked himself up and walked quietly
away. The same evening he met the King of Naples, who had seen
the accidenL " How horribly frightened you must have been," said
the King. "Not at all/' answered Mettcmich; *' it is no merit of
mine, but I am constitutionally inaccessible to fear." " It is as I
thought," replied the King ; "you axe a supernatural being."

The man who had learnt in his youth to confront Napoleon wa
naturally an object of awe and admiration to the crowned heads
Europe. Curiously enough Napoleon himself singled out the man
who was to become his greatest diplomatic opponent. When Count
Cobenzl was appointed in 1S06 as Austrian ambassador at Paris,
Napoleon took exception to the choice and pointed out young
Kcttemich as the most suitable person to be sent to his CourL It
had been previously decided to send Mettemich to St. Petersburg,
actd he was on his way thither from Berlin when Napoleon
signified his request. Motternich received instructions to stop at
Vienna, and there he learned that his destination was Paxis.
Napoleon took a pleasure in conversing with him at the Sunday
receptions at the Tuileries, when the whole diplomatic corps would be
Assembled €n masst. " You are young," said Napoleon, " to represent
so old a country." "Your Majesty was only my age," replied
^lettemtch, " when you fought AuslerUtz."

Mctternich made a brilliant success in Paris. His manners, his
address, his appearance recommended him not only to Napoleon,
but to the whole Court circle. He was appealed to as an authority
•on all matters of taste and etiquette. No ceremonies or enlcrtain-
Tnents were undertaken without his advice. He played the rdle of
trifler to perfection, and while he appeared to be immersed In gaieties

Nt^olnm mmd Pnme* MtUetmuJk. i6$

be «>s oiqilajed in vstdungpoEticftleTentsazid studying Napoleon^
dsposuOiL

After tiie naiittge of Napoleon vtth the Archduchess Marie
Lonise^ Menennch was treated iridt still more confidence hy tho
Emperor and admittffd to the doscst intimacy. Napoleon urged
him to visit dbe Empress more often and with less ceremony, and left
them alone, dot they m^t couTeise more freely. The Empress
was not always so jndidoQs in her conduct as was desirable^ and
N^toleon asked Mettemich to advise her with regard to her attitude
towards strainers. "The Empress is young," he remarked; "she
mig^ think I was going to be a severe husband ; you are herfather%
nunister and the friend of her childhood ; what you say vrill have
more efiect upon her than anything I could say."

When war finally broke out with Austria Napoleon's wrath
eiqiloded over the head of the ambassador who had, as he felt, befooled
him and lulled his suspicions irith hk words. The French reprcr
sentative at Vienna had faithfully reported to his master that Austria
was making unusual preparations to increase her military strength,
but Mettemich*s soothing phrases calmed Napoleon's rising wrath
and gave Austria time to complete her arrangements. Events suc-
ceeded each other so rapidly that the Austrian despatch warning
Mettemich to fly from Paris had only just arrived when Napoleon, in
hot indignation, gave orders to Fouch^, Minister of Police, to seize
the ambassador and march him to the frontier under strict guard.
Fouch^ however, was not disposed to carry out his instructions au
pUd de lakttre. He called at the Austrian Embassy and courteously
asked Mettemich when it would suit him to leave Paris. He even
put off the journey for a couple of days after the date was fixed, in
order to give Mettemich time to recover from a slight indisposition.

It was to Mettemich that the Allied Sovereigns turned in 1813
when Napoleon, who wanted time to reorganise his forces, was doing
all in his power to protract negotiations. M. de Bubna, the Austrian
ambassador, had been spending fruitless days in trying to gain an
interview with Napoleon at Friedrichstadt, near Dresden, where the
Emperor had stationed himself. Time passed on, and still the
business was no nearer being settled. The Sovereigns grew more
and more uneasy and consulted Mettemich as to what was to be done-
This brought matters to a head. No sooner did Napoleon hear that
Mettemich was in the confidence of the Allies than he made up his
mind that further delay was useless. He sent a message requesting
that Mettemich would come and see him. The utmost excitement
prevailed. Mettemich went in the character of mediator for half

l66

The Gentleman s Magazine,

Europe Ministers, generals, ambassadors thronged the onto-
chambcrs of the palace in fc%'erish anxiety.

The interview began at two o'clock in the afternoon. Napoleon,
who was standing with his hat under his arm, began in an injured
tone : " Here you are then, M. de Metternich, at last, Vou have
come very late, for twenty-four days have elapsed since the armistice
was signed and nothing has yet been done. All this lias arisen from
the delays of Austria. I have long been sensible that I could not
rely on my relations with that Power. No extent of obligation
or kind deeds has been able to overcome your inveterate hostility
towards me."

Warming to his subject Napoleon proceeded to set forth how
benevolent and pacific had been his conduct throughout, and
•how ungrateful Austria had shown herself towards him. Metternich
replied that he Iiad come to ask for peace, and explained the
proposed terms. Thereupon Napoleon broke out into fury and
insult.

" I know," he said, " what you desire in seact. You Auslrians
desire to get Italy entirely to yourselves ; your friends the Russians
desire Poland ; the Prussians are set on Saxony, the English on
Belgium and Holland. And if I yield to-day you will to-morrow
• demand of me those the objects of your most ardent desires.
But before you get them prepare to raise millions of men, to shed
the blood of many generations, and to come to treat at the foot
of Montmartrc. Oh, Metternich 1 how much has England given you
to propose such terms to me ?" '

After this Napoleon continued in a blustering strain, saying that
lie would rather die than tarnish bis glory. "I am a soldier.
I have need of honour and glory. I cannot reappear lessened
in the midst of my people. I must remain great, glorious, admired."

Metternich asked, if that were the case, when the war was to
come to an end, and added, " I have just traversed your army ;
your regiments are composed of children ; you have anticipated the
regular levies and called to arms a generatiun not yet formed;
if that generation is destroyed by the war in which you arc engaged
where will you find a new one to supply its place? WiU you
descend to a still younger brood of children ?"

At this point Napoleon lost the last remnants of his self-control;
he grew pale with rage, and letting fall the bat which he had been
carrying he walked up to Metternich, exclaiming, " You are not
a soldier, sir ; you have not even the soul of a soldier : you ha^-e

' Aliion's Livts^L^rd Csaikn^ and Lord Stttvartt vol. i. p. 6ju

Napdkon and Prince Mettemich, t^*^

not lived in camps or learned to despise your own life or those
of others when their sacrifice is necessary. What are two hundred
thousand men to me? I can afford to spend a hundred thousand
men every year."

"Let us open the windows," replied Mettemich, "that Europe
in a body may hear you, and if it does so the cause I am pleading
will not suffer."

Kicking his hat into a comer Napoleon paced about the room,
haranguing in an impassioned strain on his indifference to the
slaughter of any number of soldiers belonging to other nations, and
descanting forcibly on the unpardonable ingratitude of Austria after
he had done her the honour of marrying an Austrian archduchess.

All through the June afternoon this duel of words was carried on.
Napoleon trying to g£un his point by invective, Mettemich sticking
doggedly to Uie original terms of the negotiation. The sun went
down, it giew too dark for the opponents to distinguish each other's
face^ and still the anxious watchers outside the locked doors waited
in w(»i(tering suspense for the issue.

At last, finding he could make no headway, Napoleon exclaimed,
**Vous persisted vous voulez toujours me dieter la loij eh bien, soit
la guerre I mab au revoir k Vienne,"

" You are lost. Sire," was Metteraich's parting word. " I had
the presentiment of it when I came; now, in going, I have the
certainty."

When Mettemich came out Berthier rushed up to him and
eagerly inquired if he were satisfied with the Emperor. " Perfectly
so^ replied Mettemich ; " he has taken a load off my conscience, for
I swear to you your master has lost his senses."

Napoleon in describing the interview the same evening, said
to some one, " I have had a long conversation with Mettemich.
He held out bravely ; thirteen times did I throw him the gauntlet,
and thirteen times did he pick it up. But the glove will remain
in my bands at last."

GEORGIANA HILL.

i6k

The Genihmatis Magazine

TERMINATING THE TREATISE.

A GHETTO SKETCH.

THE Beth-Hatnidrash of the synagogue of the "Seekers of
Truth " is thronged to-night with an immense assembly.
The large dark-ceiled, dingy-walled room, wliich wears a gloomy
aspect by day, is now lit up with a blaze of splendour : the central
chandelier— hanging from a blackened beam above the Aimemmor
or precentor's platform — glittering with a blinding effulgence that
is reflected from its many clusters of prismatic drops ; gas-jets
blazing with their flaming tongues ; candles shining with their serene
slender rays. A babel of a hundred voices roars tumultuously in
the " house of study " ; eager excited talk flows freely on every 8ide»
accompanied by ceaseless gesture. Knots of men are gathered here
and there: near the "holy ark" containing the scrolls of the Torah
— a cabinet behung with a blue plush curtain, and surmounted by
twin tablets inscribed with the decalogue; beside the huge bookcase
with glass sliding doors, stocked with ponderous leather-bound
volumes ; and about the many massive pillars supporting the ceiling,
to one of which is attached a crescent -shaped tin box with a slit in
the top, which serves as a depository to givers of charity in secret.
A loquacious little fellow, with a silk hat on the back of his head, is
explaining to several open-mouthed listeners an elaborate table m
the tiniest c^ type, displayed on one of the walls, and that shows
the calendar for as many years in tlie future as any frequenter of the
sanctuary is likely to require ; a hatchet- faced, grizzled wight is
harangubg a small company on the gradual spread of Sabbath-
desecration ; a solicitous father is arranging terms with a Mclammed
for tlic Hebrew instruction of his backward son ; numerous groups
arc hotly debating matters of policy concerning the synagogue ; two
or three " Seekers of Truth *' are discussing the discourse delivered
by the Maggid (preacher) on the prenous day ; and many a
workman is raiUng at the tyranny of employers In tliG sympathetic
hearing of his discontented mates.

A big placard, printed in bold and weak characters b aU«fiuUe

Tcmiinating the Treatise,

169

Jincs, posted on a disused door, attracts the attention of every
ival, who, though aware of the nature of the night's event, reads,
rhaps for the tenth time, the following announcement, which has
stared at bim from many a shop window and hoarding in the last few
days : " On the first day of the week, section And he Hved^ at
8 o'clock in the evening, our teacher the Rav . . ., the son of our
teacher the Rav . . ., will terminate the treatise New Vear, and
whosoever cometh, h.-ippy will he be and blessed will bis name be
caUed."

Seated on the benches about the middle of a long tabic, between
the pbtform and the bookcase, are a group of elderly men swaying
intermittently over faded folios, and deeply engrossed in study and
discussion, despite the general commotion around them. The table
is covered with a print cloth stained with candle-grease, which Is
tied to the legs in vain pro\'ision against physical demonstrations of
mental exdtement. The diligent circle consists of those who
r^ularly attend the Talmudical expositions, synecdochically called
the £/af/ or leaf, which are delivered by the Rav (minister) on every
night but the Sabbath. They are labouring over a treatise which
begun some two or three months ago, and of which, in
cordance with traditional custom, the subtleties and perplexities of
the last page or so have been left to be unravelled to-night, with all
the honour of an especially large audience and the rumoured
reward of a subsequent repast. Some of them have the reputation
of scholars versed— nay, thoroughly steeped — in the entire rabbinical
literature ; and report says that one, with a grey forked beard and
wizen cheeks, sitting in a huddled posture, possesses the letters
patent of a Rav, whereof a cruel fate has presented his enjoying the
fruits. The others, with the exception of the Melammed, who is
constantly wiping his spectacles with a snufTy, red-patterned hand-
"kerchief, and the bookseller— fabled to incorporate in his person the
being of an author too— follow quite humble callings, comprising as
they do a retail grocer, a glazier, a pedlar, and an itinerant egg-dealer.
Absorbed the whole day long in seeking little more than the bread
of life, they now are lost to all worldly distraction, wandering in a
maze of dialectics, and forming a striking picture of animated study
amid the surrounding stir and babble — with lips trolling, eyes flashing,
brows wrinkling, shoulders heavinp, bodies swaying, and thumbs
resolutely scooping the air as though to clinch the momentous argu-
ment. Blithely they follow the bewildering passage of the dicta of
opposing schools; keenly past barriers of objection and lurking
falUclcs, they scent the trail of the guiding truth, and vigorously they
vol- cc.xci. NO. acvtS, N

17©

The Genlietnans Magazine,

clutch each other's gesticulating hand in vehement dispute, while
pouring forth a torrent of references, and whirling their own free hand
in rhythm with the sequence of contrasted clauses.

But suddenly the hubbub ceases; the hatchet-faced haranguer
restrains his exhortations, the uproarious debaters check their fiery
eloquence, and a lanVy ill-clad youth who has been poring over a.
volume of the "Midrash " by the light of a candle on a broad window-
ledge, turns round wondering at the abrupt lull. "The Rav is
here ! " is whispered throughout the room. The throng quickly,
reverently parts, and a slim black-coated figure of medium height
hastens past with lowered visage to the seat next to the ark, where
he stops and faces the walL iUl gossip is stayed ; the people
assume an attitude of prayer ; and a fatherless worshipper, still \x\
his period of eleven months' mourning has ascended the Aimtmntor
to do the precentor's office.

The service concluded, the assembly press forward to the
Talmudical tabic. But the benches arc of limited capacity, and
after they have been filled to their utmost there still remains a
modest multitude who form a triple straggling fringe on either side.
Amongst these is the Parnass^ the directing genius of Uie shrine for
the current year, who, with an unconvincing look of wisdom, ia
leaning his elbows on the back of a bench ; but a past president
and former rival of the present warden, who has long seceded from
the " Seekers of Truth " because of the waning of his influence, lut
has been invited to the celebration because of the air of importance
lent by his dignity as communal chairman, is given a scat of honour
and comfort. The shuflling of feet and buzz of voices yet continue,
and the Shamtnes (beadle) feeling his authority defied, takes up a
prayer-book, strikes it thrice with his heavy palm, and belches forth
an emphatic imperious " Sha-a-a I "

Silence follows. All eyes turn to the impressive figure at the
centre of the table. A dark grave face, vivid eyes, snowy beard,
thin firm lips, silver-streaked earlocks, and a lofly forehead surmounted
by a skull-cap ; the whole pervaded with a glow of enthusiasm, an
ineffable halo of piety and learning : — such is the appearance of the
Rar. At his elbow is a pile of six or eight stout volumes for
purposes of reference ; and a pair of thick wax candles, in tall silver
candlesticks, shed their light around him. His forefinger passes
qnickly down the page of the bulky tome as he reviews with the
glance of a veteran the preceding arguments, and a feint strain of
the traditional sing-song slowly issues from between bis lips.
Almost imperceptibly, amid breathless stillness, [be begins in knr

Temttnating the Treatise^

dear tones to unfold the theme of his exposition ; and in another
moment he has embarked on the advertised passage.

" The sea of the Talmud," as the Rabbis call the thesaurus of
andent Jewish lore, is an expanse whose every inch is known to him,
whose depths are revealed to him in their very outline, whose currcnta
Bow harmoniously with the trend of his thoughts. Vast, indeed,
it is, almost immeasurably vast, but he has traversed its mighty
bosom more than once, with a perseverance that grew with time and
a joy augmented by the belief that only thus could one reach celestial
territory. His mind glides upon it with the ease begotten of fifty
years' practice, and his features wear a look of anticipated success.
At first with steady course, to suit the feeble wits in the company,
he steers the way on the great tract — which contains in its midst
elements of all earthly science, scraps of saga and fable, gems of
truth, lumps of wisdom, myth, allegory, all resting on layers of
religious legislation — skilfully avoiding dilemmas and passing safely
over stretches of logomachy, cleaving asunder conflicting theories
and principles, and stopping ever and anon to study some interesting
spot more minutely in strips of bordering commentary, and then
continuing cheerfully and more briskty on the path strewn for him
with the light of Heaven ; what time he marks his progress by a
Quaint fantastic air, rising now to treble and sinking soon to a soft
Pnimbling bass, now quavering, now flowing, now harsh, now sweet,
vibrating with tender emotive chords and loud with grating ululations
wherein resounds a people's voice with the wailing echo of tlie
centuries. And his hand, restless as with some feverish transport,
iinda with pointed finger hither and thither, following the varied
urns and twists of the fluctuating argument as it ploughs the
(Talmudical deep. But soon there comes a pause : the need of

chiog outlook arises, of penetrating a cloud of hazy hypotheses,
^and the passage is stayed while the master of the Gemara, with
knitted brow, consults the ponderous books at his side.

Meanwhile the rumoured possessor of a rabbinical diploma
discusses in an undertone with the erudite grocer; the itinerant egg-
dealer, with much taking of snuff and stroking of his beard,
Lexchangcs \'icws with the philosophical glaiier ; and the Mclammedi
[placing his fore&nger to the side of his nose, gives ear to the
[strictures of the learned pedlar. Meanwhile the gaunt goatcc-beardcd
Ibeadlc^ perched on the narrow ledge of the bookcase, with his hand
rgrasping a shelf, and bis legs dangling, succumbs to the fatigue of
the day, the heat of the room, and the dryness of the discourse;
bis eyes doee, hb head droops, and he is on the point of falling to

N a

172

The Gentletnans Magazine,

the floor when he awates with a start and a look of wrath. Mean-
while the communal chairman, helpless before the like soporific
influences, is bowed in peaceful slumber, his gold-rimmed pincc-nn
clinging lovingly to his nose ; and the Chazan (precentor), a dense
portly personage, sitting apart in solitary state beside the ark, listens
to the general hum and hums himself an original refrain for the
" additional " service of an approaching festival

At length the Rav has concluded his research ; a luminous
commentary has dispelled the overhanging mist, and with a pleased
countenance, from which the wrinkles seera to have vanished, he
continues the voyage in the ancient volume. But floods of reason-
ing press heavily about him ; the argument toils on wearily; and
the burden must be lightened by the jetsam of anecdote and recurrent
wit. Still there are spells of uninterrupted /¥^/ (dialectics) when
the whole assembly seem borne along as by some mighty impulse,
the movement of their minds evincing itself in their faces, which
Resent a panorama of wrought-up interest, anxiety, cogitation^
delight, and concentrated study. They watch the course of the
Rav's advance with eager eyes, with close-pressed lips, ever on the
alert for a deviation from the rightful path, and quick to exclaim
their queries or self- convinced corrections. Often, indeed, there
rises a vigorous dispute between master and men as to the true
lenour of the labouring ratiocination, and on either side is heard a
strong expression of subtle views — voluble quotation of maxims and
authorities — weakening down at last in favour of the grey preceptor.
Then there spreads across the faces of the more light-hearted a
smile of triumph at the confusion of those that would be clever, and
though the chsmces are great that to ihcm the meaning of the whole
discussion is a dark impenetrable mystery, yet many are the mutual
smirks and the shakings of forefingers that serve as signals of a
complete agreement with the final decision.

And so the argument struggles on^ with r^fular visits to the
neighbouring commentary*, returning ever and again to the midst of
the text ; and as the Rav glances round he meets with many an
assenting nod and sage demeanour, affected by wise and unwise
alike, and prompted by a general desire to appear sympathetic Yet
here and there are drowsy e>es, heavy drooping heads \ victims as it
were to Talmudic sea-sickness, whose habits have estranged them
&om this exhausting excursion. A swart puny creature, with a cloth
cap on his dishe\"eHed shock, who has been lately bereft of his wife,
has lulled himself to sleep, and on his knee sits a little weakling boy
with pitiful eyes and pole thin cheeks. An etat-famcd Melamtned,

Terfninating ike Treatise,

173

purblind and doddering, looks on with a vacant stare ; and leaning
against the charity-box pillar stands a man of demented wit, with a
pbronied bearded face, and leering glittering eyes,

Bui now a sense of relief seems to hover about the company :
a dim perception that the end of the passage is drawing nigh ; and
their hearts beat faster, and their attention becomes more keen as
they await the issue of the Ray's disputr.tive emprise. And be, with
a voice still bold and steady, and little subdued by an hour's incessant
speech, pursues his path with undiminishing zest, his dark, grave
features Ut up with majestic glow — fed by internal ardour— and his
lips throwing forth the ever-succeeding measures of dialectical lore
with rapid, delightful accents. Diligently the seven faithful students
follow the winding track — the dizning disquisition— insensible to
the tossing and rocking on the theological tide, and lifting up their
eyes ever and again from their tomes gaze with a look of reverence
on the thoughtful aged countenance. Slowly the bark glides on,
Land now it sails swiftly, on and on, with a pleasant rhythmic motion,
^neaiing safely its destination \ and as the tones of the Rav are stilled
and bis Talmudic voyage ended, a Hearty joyous shout breaks forth
from every throat : " Yosher Kowack (Strength increase) ! " and a
mirthful uproar reigns throughout the room.

Again and again is the hand of the Rav shaken with unutterable
Mdmiration. Wishes galore hail down upon him that he may live to
Ftcrminate many a treatise in the days to come. With a smile of
content he mops his brow and nods acknowledgments on every side.
And the fatherless worshipper, who read the evening service
hurriedly recites the customary prayer of thanksgiving, in which
occurs a specially long glorification of God, and favour is besought
"for all who study ilie Law in whatsoever place." After which
spiritual invocation a general exodus ensues into an adjoining
chamber to complete the celebration with material festivity.

ENOCH SCR IDS.

174

The GenlUmatis Magazine.

THE FIGHT AT BOJV, NEAR
LONDON, IN 1648.

" Essex U comming up w' a pcticiuQ wbidi displcftscth the bosses, and thcrdbre
wonld hinder It either by foire ineanes, sending downc Knights of that Sbtrc to
receive it or to pcrswadc ihcra to send it up by n few, or by foule, fo which
purpose a Regiment of I lorse U to be sent to Riimfotd, and onotho' to Bow oader
the command of Cromwell.''

*■ Essex I'etitioa is now expected and Cromwell goa to 6ow» in cue they

come with number to opix^se them."

(Extracts from Letter of lateU^eticc, May i, 1638. Claicndcm MS.]

AT the time of the historic contest for supremacy between the
Cavaliers and Roundheads, Bow was a rural town situated sonic
two and a half miles east of the City of London. It was a settle-
ment which had grown up on both sides of the bridge erected in the
twelfth century over the river Lea. The eastern portion of the bridge
is in the county of Essex, and the western portion in Middlesex.
Bow was then, as now. one of the Tower Hamlets, but tt is now
surrounded for mites on every side with nineteenth -century buildings,
and but for the church and the river, and tlie position of the bridge
and the highway, little remains to mark the town which Cromwell
knew. The year 1648 was a period of great unrest and disturbance
in London. Frequent collisions occuncd between the parliamentary
army and the London populace. The majority of the citizens and
of the inhabitants of the neighbouring counties of Essex, Kent and
Suney were in favour, at this lime, of making a compromise with
King Charles, and of restoring him to the throne with somewhat
diminished power and authority. Ilie King was now a prisoner in
Carisbrookc Castle in the custody of Colonel Hammond, and in ll»c
early part of the year even Cromwell and his party still thought it
might be possible to come to terms with him, or to induce him to
abdicate in bvour of one of his sons, who was, however^ to be

The Fight at Botv^ near London^ in 1648. ijs

dq»ived of certain prerogatives which Charles considered belonged
to the Crown.

Dissatisfaction with the existing condition of aHaiis was becoming
general throughout the countr)-, and high-handed proceedings by
Parliament, and more particularly by the parliaraenlary army, had
ded the Cavaliers in their task of stirring up opposition to Cromwell
nd his friends. The occupation of London by the parliamentary
army had aroused the keen resentment of the citizens, and Cromwell
and Fairfax saw with some alarm thai they might be called upon to
keep down the City by force of arms at the same time lliat they were
doing battle with the Welsh and the Scotch, This they knew the
army was not strong enough to accompUsh, and they therefore
resolved to appease ihe City fathers. Accordingly, Fairfax (the
Lord-General of the parliamentary forces) announced to the House
of Commons (May 1) his intention of sending Cromwell into Wales,
and withdrawing the regiments from Whitehall and the Mews, and
aving the protection of Parliament to the London forces under
fajor-General Skippon, a Presbyterian favoured by tlie Londoners,
He also withdrew his soldiers from the Tower, and allowed the City
to garrison that fortress with its own militia \ and permitted the
replacement of the chains which had been drawn across the main
thoroughfares to prevent cavalry charges, and which had been taken
down by the army.

AlUiough the army was cordially bated by the people of London,
the citizens were too much afraid of a fresh outbreak of war to take
^active measures against it, and when, at the end of May, the Kentish
ilists mobilised and met at Blackheath, and asked for support
from the City, these concessions probably influenced the townsfolk
in their decision to refuse to render any assistance.

However, in the early part of the year the discontent in the Gty

was so widespread that the Parliament dreaded the appearance of

.any great gathering of malcontents, even though they came only to

ppresent a petition; hence the order to Cromwell to prevent the

ssage of any large number of the Essex petitioners through London,

Peithcr by fair means or foul.

The petitioners were to be persuaded to allow the petition to be

ented by a few representatives who might pass to H'estminster ,

rithout attracting undue attention ; and should the petitioners prove

untractable Cromwell was to disperse them with his cavalry. But

Lihc men of Essex seem on this occasion 10 have been a match for

rihe forceful Puritan, as the distasteful petition which pra>'cd that

the Ring might be satisfied was actually brought to Westminster on

.76

The GcntkmatCs Magazine,

May 4 by a procession of some 2,000 men, and was said to repre-
sent the wishes of 30,000 of the Essex inhabitants. Probably
Parliament at the last moment concluded that it would not be wise
to use force of arms merely to prevent the presentation of a petition;
but twelve days later the men of Surrey presented a similar petition,
and John Evelyn in his diary notes that "some of them were slajme
and murder'd by Cromwell's guards in the New Palace Yard."

The people of Kent also determined to present a like petition,
and to support it if necessary by force of arms. A general rising of
this county took pbce on May 21, and Rochester, Siltbgboumc,
Favcrsham, and Sandwich were occupied in the King's name. It
was agreed that on May 30 the supporters of the petition should
meet, fully armed, at Blackheath. The petitioners came as far as
Deptford, but then retreated because news arrived of the approach of
the parliamentor)' forces. A detachment of the petitioners was
defeated at Maidstone on June 1 by Fairfax, and the greater part of
the Kentish men then dispersed. The Earl of Norwich (Lord
Goring), the leader of the royalist forces, fled, and reached Black-
heath on the evening of June 3 with some 3,000 followers*,
Fairfax, who had still to occupy other towns in Kent, detached a
body of horse under the command of Colonel Whalley (first cousin
to Cromwell) from his main army to deal with Norwich and his
party. Professor Gardiner, in his " History of the Great Civil War,"
says that " when Nor^vich reached Blackheath he found no sign of
welcome. With the gatos of London shut against him, and WhaUe/s
troops pressing in his rear, his position was untenable* A gleam of
hope, however, reached liim from Essex, where, as he was informed,
thousands had risen for the King. Crossing the river alone he rode
ofl" to Chelmsford to ascertain the truth, leaving his deserted
followers distracted by panic. The greater part of them fled
hurriedly into Surrey, abandoning their horses and casting away
their arms to escape observation. About 500 crossed the
Thames in boats, their horses swimming by the side, and the
following rooming established themselves at Stratford and Bow,
where they were at last rejoined by their commander, who found no
signs of a rising in Essex. Taking possession of Bow Bridge,
Norwich cut the communication between Essex and tlie City, hoping
in the first place tlmt London would c\-en yet admit him within tia
walls, and in the second place that, if that was not to be, he might,
by his interposition, give a bre^ilhing space to the men of Essex to
rally round him.**

A pamphlet entitled " Ne>C8 from Bowc," printed in 1648, tclli

The Fight ai Bou.u fuar Linden, in i6^8. 177

us thai " On Sunday night hst, being the rourth of this instutt June,
there was a small skinntsh between soote of tbe Lord Gorings forces
which were joyncd with the Essex men at Bow, ind sotue of the
Lord Gcneralls horse which were come back to mflg end, and are
commanded by Col: Wbalcy, there was aboot thite men kiUed on
both sides, those of the Essex party were fixccd to retreat again to
Bow bridge and farther action ceased for Ibe present There are
more horses mounting in the Oty of London to aastst those on that
side of the river of bow and the L.Gen. (Fair£at) is ooaug^ bad^
and will be on the other side this ni^ht or to-morrow.*

A weekly newspaper called 7%e Kin^iiUi WttJtly ImitiUgmcer,
in its issue for the week ending June 6, 1648, informs us that on
Sunday, June 4, Lord Goring " with the cfaoyaest of his men waa
ferryed over into Essex, baring beard that the Essex men bad began
to rise into a body, and planted two Drakes on Bow Bridge, where be
(the reporter) beard they appeared to stand in a posture of defence
but interrupted none tliat passed that way. About one of the dock
in the afternoon Coltood Whaley who with a coosiderxble party of
horse was sent in pursuit of the Lord Goring did advance after him
into Essex over the river (over London Bridge), and had his Reodex
Tous on Mileend Green, from whettce he bad sent many Prisoners
vhich he had l&ken, to Guild- Halt The Lord Goring being come
into Essex, the militia of the City sent up two Lrraks to Aldgate
which were planted for the present safety of the City."

The same periodtcai in its news for Monday, Jane 5, states that
" Collonel WTixley the last night had like to have been ingaged with
tbem (the royalists) not far from Bovr, having with him a con-
siderable Body of Horse, besides three troops lent from Lieutenant
GeneiaU Cromwell, and a troop belonging to the Gty, under the
command of Capt Cook. But finding the Foot had lined the
Hedges, and dressed an Ambush for him, be did forbear, and was
content to return with two or three prisoners taken, and as many
slain."

From a narrative of the Great Victory in Kent, and of the fight
al Bow, ordered to be printed by the House of Commons in 164S,
we lean) that " The Lord Goring with those at Stratford and Boe
had a dispute with some of ours, where wc killed them a Major, and
three men, and took six prisoners, with one man slain on our part,
and upon assurance of an indemnity the £lssex men wilt be quiet"

Many of the royalist papers printed at this period were rcty
lewd and coarse, and few more so than Tfu ParUamtnt Kitt^ but
the issue of this newspaper for June S, 1648, contains the following

«r8

Tke Geniiemans Magazine,

interesting reference to the seiiuie of Bow Bridge : Lord Coring
"ferryed over his Horse and Foot at Black-wall, and so in good
Eqipage marched to Stratford -langton, and possessed themselves of
Bow-bridge, and surprized two Foot Com panics of the (Tower)
HamletLs, all but those that flung down their Armcs, and run for it,
one of which was said to be the cowardly Gale alias Disch. From
Bow on Sunday in the afternoon, a Party of about 13 Horse
scouted out as far as Mile-end, and gallantly charged some four
Troops of Fairfax his Horse who like valiant Rebells, b^an to run
for it."

According to Professor Gardiner, Norwich, leaving his troops
behind him under Sir William Compton, hurried to Chelmsford on
the 7th, and after a conference at Brentwood with the principal
Essex royalists relumed to Stratford, and on the 8th took his troops
to Brentwood, where he joined his forces with those of Sir Charles
Lucas ; but a letter from Sir Thomas Honeywood to Col. Cooke,
dated June 7, states that " the rebels that were at Bow have been
driven thence by Col: Whalley who is now at Stratford Langton
with orders to pursue them."

The story of the retreat of the royalists to Colchester, and the
long siege of that town by Fairfax, is too well known to need repeti-
tion here. The ro)-alists did not surrender until the aSih day of
August, and during all those long weeks of si^e Bow Bridge wis a
position of great importance from a military point of view, for the
bridge is on the direct road from X^ndon to Colchester, and greatly
facilitated the transport of food, arms, and ammunition. Its
importance is sufficiently indicated in the following Orders and
letters from the Committee of both Houses of Parliament which sat
at this time at Derby House :

June S, 164S. — Warrant to the Committee of the Tower Hamlets.
"You are authorised to draw forth upon this occasion 120 trusty
men, with two pieces of ordnance, to secure the bridge at Bow and
passages at Ham, in order to prevent the enemy from seizing on them
and thereby hindering the coming of provisions into the City and so
breed a discontent there. Also by guarding tlie said bridge and
passes many disaflectcd persons may be kept from repairing to the
rebels and their correspondence with the City hindered,"

July 3, 1648.— Letter to the Lord General (Fairfax). "The
enemy have an intention to stop the passage at Bow Bridge so as to
hinder the coming of ammunition and other provisions by that way
to you."

July 5, 1648. — Letter 10 the Militia of the Tower Hamlets.

The Fight at Bow^ near London, in 1648. 179

"Tliere are now a guard of Essex horse at Bow Bridge, but as there
may be occasion to employ these elsewhere, you are desired to pre-
pare a guard of 100 men to sectu% these bridges."

July 20, 1648. — Order to Major>General Skippon for a convoy
from London to Bow, and the like to Colonel MUdmay to take
charge of the said ammunition from thence till he meet another con-
voy (from the army before Colchester).

The presence of troops was no novelty in the little town of Bow,
for in Z589 the inhabitants of Bow, Bromley, and Stepney had been
oU^ed to receive into their houses, and find victuals for, several
htmdred of the troops who were sent into Portugal When the troops
had departed the inhabitants petitioned the Government that they
might be " paid the several sommes of money due unto them for
the victualing of soldiers before their going into Fortugale," and
the Privy Council generously ordered that jQio should be distributed
that " the poore men maie in some sort be relieved and our selves
no more trobled." The Government of the present day would
probably be glad to dispose of their bills for the victualling of soldiers
in a similar manner. Nevertheless, the passage of Fairfax's army and
all the attendant paraphernalia of war through the rural hamlet
was a stirring episode to be long remembered and discussed by the
inhabitants.

The capture of Colchester by Fairfax and Ireton was followed by
the barbarous execution, after surrender, of two of its most gallant
defenders. Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle. Thus
terminated the last struggle for King Charles, and a few months later
the ill-&ted monarch was beheaded.

HAROLD F. UILLS.

]8o

The Ceniieman^s Magadne,

THE LOVE STORY OF AN OLD
MARQUISE.

IN the late autumn of 17 13, a young girl, Mademoiselle de Froulay,
daughter of one of the most aristocratic houses of France^ made
her first journey to Paris. She travelled in a post-chaise, and was
alone, save for one woman-attendant and the two postillions that her
father had sent from Paris to escort her. They were six days on the
road — those villainous roads that nothing but the exigencies of a
royal progress could make tolerable — and when at the journey's end
she was met by her father at the de Froulay Hotel in the Rue St.
Dominique, he received her as coolly as if they had separated only
the evening before, though, curiously enough, he had never seen her
[till then during the fourteen or fifteen years of her yo'mg life.

This visit to Paris was a tremendous and unexpected epoch in
Mademoiselle de Froulay's career. Her mother had died at her birth
while her father was away commanding his troops on the Germim
L.frontier ; and, as soon as she was able to dispense with a nurse's
.care, she was taken in a litter to the Abbey of Montivilliers, where
her serene childhood was passed among the quiet Sisters, under the
direct and kindly supervision of her aunt, the imposing Abbess.
She was a specublivc, dreamy child, and would spend hours, eerie
twilight hours, in the sepulchral chapel where the abbesses of the
convent lay buried ; feeling no fear of the gloom, no terror of the
tombs and efligics of the departed abbesses \ she looked on these
latter rather as her spiritual kin among whom her aunt would one day
be laid ; among whom she might eventually lie herself as her aunt's
successor. For there seemed nothing but the cloister before her.
All the hopes of the house were centred in her only brother, a hand-
some young seigneur who had been, as was the custom of his class
and period, so much away from his family that she never saw him
till she was eight years old ; her father's estate was not large enough
to dower her according to her rank ; and her grandfiither, the only
one of his line who had married into ^/ami/U dtfinami^ was con-
sidered a deplomblc example for all the rest of his blood to avoid.
Then, one da/, when she was in her fifteenth year, news oune to

The Love Story of an Old Marquise. 1 8 1

the convent which brought a supreme change into her quiet destiny.
Her brother the young seigneur was dead, and, though married, had
leftxu> children. She was, therefcH'c, no longer the possible re/tguuse
with the veil before her ready to hide the world from her young and
curious eyes, but a great heiress, fitted by rank and wealth for almost
any fortune that France could offer. Her accomplishments, too,
were all tliat any lady was expected to acquire, but her aunt, the
Abbess, wisely decided that the usages of the grand monde in wliich
ber future would probably be spent, were not to be lightly picked up
by hearsay or intuition ; ibcy could only be learned in Paris under
the careful guidance of some high-bom dame to whom the practice
of such knowledge was an everyday affair.

Hence Uie journey to Paris— when the prescribed period of
mourning was over — where her father, after ordering a satisfying
quantity of confectionery even for the appetite of fifteen, took her to
the Hotel de Breteuil, where she was to pass the winter with her
aunt, the Baronne de Bretcuil-Preuilly (her father's sister), learning
meanwhile what had suddenly become an important and serious
branch of her education — the manners and habits of aristocratic
France as practised at Paris.

Notwithstanding the tears shed at parting with her indulgent
sunt the Abbess, this sudden excursion into an entirely new life was
fiill of charm for the intelligent young girl whom the Fates had
dowered at birth with the magic gift of observation. The Hotel de
Breteuil was a handsome building ovcriooking the gardens of the
Tuileries and divided into several flats of eight or nine rooms ; each
storey occupied by different branches of the Breteuil family.

Thus, the ground floor was the pied-dterre of Ijdy Laura de
Breteuil, a peeress of Britain, descended from the Roj-al Irish line
cf the O'Briens. Her mother was superintendent of the exiled
Queen's household at St. Gcrmains, where they had sumptuously
furnished apartments ; indeed, the whole family were ferment Jaco-
bites, devoted to the Stuart cause ; an important factor in one
episode in Mademoiselle de Froulay's life.

The second storey was occupied by the Countess of Breteuil
Cbanneaax, born a dc Froulay, who was a source of wondering
amusement to the young visitor. She was a vain, exacting, egotistical
dowager, who kept seven waiting-women employed night and day
with her whims and fancies. She never went out save in a gorgeous
coach drawn by six horses, with coachman and four lacqueys in
grand livery, looking, as her brother-in-law the Baron — who had to pay
—sarcastically remarked, " like nothing so much as a show a.V^ASV«r

l82

The Gentleman s Magaztm,

The Commandeur de Breteml Chantecler lived in the third
storey, and was, to alt his servants, a man of mj^tcry. His life was
quiet and rcgubr : he was singularly lenient to his people ; yet,
whenever he walked out at evening with a hood drawn over his head,
and his long cloak wrapped closely round him, his domestics would
peer curiously from the windows, and invest his unobtrusive habits
with a romantic interest, all of which was to the young mademoiselle
full of charm and excitement.

She was tlius suddenly transplanted into the midst of a family
not her own, so critical and txig/ant that at times it seemed to her
a veritable thorn bush. The relatives with whom she had come to
spend the winter were the Baron and Baronoe dc Brclcuil-Preuilly,
who retained the first storey for themselves, while the fourth and
topmost floor was given up to their five children. A beautiful
apartment in tin's latter flat was assigned to the visitor, which
especially delighted her because it "gave" on to the gardens of the
Tuileries ; but this privilege earned her the enmity of her cousin
Emilie, some few years younger than herself, who had to turn out
of it into three liny rooms during the whole of her cousin's \'isit.
There was a natural antipathy between the two girls ; the little
guest thought Emilie of gigantic proportions for her age, with
enormous hands and " terrible " feet, and a skin like a nutmeg-grater ;
and in after life was angry with Voltaire because that sliarp-eycd
critic of his kind dared to call this self-same Emilie " beautiful and
wise.'*

The household of the wealthy Baron was earned on in the
generous opulent style prevalent at that period among the rich
aristocracy. The house was gilded and decorated in the gorgeous
fasluon then affected ; forty-four servants were needed to keep the
establishment going, which is not surprising, for twenty extra covers
were nightly laid for guests who might or might not come in to
supper. The Baron had a fine library for the time, and cultivated
letters, or men of letters at least. Fontenellc was a constant visitor
on Tuesdays, and, being of good family as well as a literary celebrity,
was always welcomed at supper; while Rousseau (not Jean Jacques),
whose lyrics were admired but whose birth was obscure, was enter-
tained only at early dinner ; for the Baron's complacent patronage
of letters never overpassed the bounds of the proprieties by asking
him to supper ! Just as in our day people on the boundaries of class,
of equivocal undefined position, may be freely asked to lunch, but
never invited to the more solemn festival of dinner. In two hundred
years notlung is changed save the designation of the meaU t

TA^ Love Story of an Old Marquise, 1 83

There vas the Due de St. Simon, too, a disagreeable old man,
BOD of St. Simon of the famous " Memoirs/' Ue also came
frequently, but rarely stayed to supper, not from lack of the requisite
rank but because of his wretched health, and, bis enemies said,
because he was too parsimonious to give suppers in return. Rousscau*£
sharp tongue did not spare him— perhaps, as poets will, he thus
re\*enged himself for unreturnable aflronls : noting the Doc'»
jaundiced complexion and "little black satanie eyes" he likened
them, to the girl's delight, to " daix charbotis dam une omtUtlt " in the
pleasant French fashion of the period, whic:h found it impossible to
be witty without being personal. S/te said he was like an ugly sick
raven, devoured by ambition and \'anily, and always perched upon
his ducal crown.

Into all this stir of unaccustomed life came the young heiress in
the dawn of womanhood, eager after her peaceful girlhood in the
serene atmosphere of the Benedictine nunnery to see everything
that was fit for eyes so fresh and innocent. Though a spectator, she
took little part in all that went on around her; she was too truly the
jeuneJilU of an aristocratic house to be allowed any freedom incom-
patible with the strictest supervision. One can see her, demurely
observant, but entrenched behind her fine, high-bred reserve ; seeing
much, saying nothing, storing up all the keen new impressions
which bit into her vivid young brain Uke an etching. She sat straight
up on a backless chair— no gvrl of that day dreamed of placing her-
self on a chair with a back to it, while to have taken an armchair
would have been considered an enormity — with Iji nri/it/ pu^rt'/e et
konnete^ which her aunt had given her to study. It was an old
edition of Poitiers, giving much quaint advice as to etiquette which
had become obsolete ; with much sound practical teaching also that
sustained Mademoiselle in the social functions at which, in her
eventful future, she was to shine with brilliance and distinction.
Her aunt, the Baronne, was an invaluable teacher of the forms to be
observed in every conceivable situation. She was zgraside datne^
placidly beautiful, of the unsmiling Madonna type, to whom etiquette
oxtd form were as the law of life. She could pronounce " Mon-
teigneur " with the exact nuance necessary to differentiate it when
speaking to a bishop or to a prince of the blood, an accomplishment
that was Justly considered among those who knew no small achieve*
ment. She had a passion for preserving the minute distinctions of
rank, and was for ever impressing on her children the shades and
niceties of deference to be observed in the daily duties and occur-
rences of life. Though the fashion of senditig rttund cups and

1 84

The Genileman's Magazine,

glasses by the sons of the house was the mode of the moment in
Paris as in England, it was not favoured by this arch-mistress of
manners ; it savoured too much of ihe bour^oiiU^ she said, and
accordingly forbade it.

Presently, into this calm routine of regular tasks and simple
pleasures came a disturbing influence, an exquisite new experience
that the young girl, fresh from tlic cloistered seclusion of Monti-
villiers, found "sweetly strange and strangely sweet." Jacobite plots
were being hatched at SL Germains, and the ground-floor of the
Hdtel de Breteuil, occupied by the superintendent of the exiled
Queen's household, was naturally a rendezvous for political inter-
views between the adherents of the Old Pretender. Among the
most active of these was George Keith, the young Earl Marischal of
Scotland, who had quite recently, with all Ihe enthusiasm of a con-
vert, joined the ranks of the Jacobites, partly owing to the influence
of his maternal uncle the Duke of Perth, whose line had ever been
loyal to the House of Stuart ; but chiefly, perhaps, because he had
been deprived of his appointment as captain of the Royal Guards, a
deprivation which, in young hot-headed fashion, he meant to avenge
by throwing all the weight of his wealth and position on the side of
the Jacobite party.

He ift-as introduced to the salon of the hospitable Baron, and
there, among a numerous company, the young Mademoiselle de
Froulay met him for the first lime. He was just twenty-five;
handsome, accomplished, wise for his years, serious because of Ihe
tremendous import of his mission ; she was about fifteen, on the
beautiful tremulous borderland of womanhood, her heart wailing
to be impressed with the indelible stamp of first love. They
were drawn to each otlicr by that indefinable perfect attmction
of two strong natures mentally akin yet physically opposite ; th^
looked at one another first with surprise, then with interest ; then
the room was empty to cither if the other was absent. Instinctively
they learned the art of speaking to each other without saying a
word; soon they dared not conwrse in the presence of friends
lest their trembling voices should break down and betray their
emotion. It was the simplest, purest love-idyll, accompanied
by no secret kisses, no clandestine meetings; every word, every
movement was in the presence of a dozen or score spectators, each
of whom would have remarked censoriously on the slightest deviation
6om the most severe propriety. One day, chancing for a few
minutes to fmd themselves isolated in a crowd of guests, he said to
bcr suddenly, with all the diffident shyness of young passion :

TAe Love Story of an Old Marquise, 1S5

" If I dared to love you, would you pardon me?"

"I should be charmed," was her half coqueitbb, wholly truthful
reply.

Hardly another word was said, but a sweet new confidence was
established between them, and, whenever they dared, they looked at
each other with the perfect, rapturous content that is the birthright
of first, unsullied love.

Six weeks or two months of this happiness, this ever fresh delight,
passed thus, vfben her aunt, the Baronne, suggested that the young
heiress should take a few lessons in Spanish from the Earl Marischal,
who was an unusually good linguist for his time, speaking French,
Spanish and Italian as well as his native tongue.

" Why not English ?" asked the Earl Marischal, thinking, perhaps,
of the day when he might take this peerless French maiden as his
bride to his romantic Highland home.

•* Ob, not English, Monsieur," was the reply. " You of the North
learn Southern languages ; wc of the South look still farther South ;
we all naturally turn to fine climates, the land of sunshine^ the land
of good wine."

But what did it matter to the young lovers which language they
studied since they had learned from each other the softest and easiest
language of the world — that of life's first love ?

So in the great salon Mademoiselle de Froulay sat on her high
stool, while the Earl Marischal — " milord George " as she loved to
call him to herself — seated himself behind her on a folding chair.
Madame la Baronne was not far away, be sure ; her sweet, serious
eyes, "gray as those of an eagle," watched all her brood wiiii the
never-winking vigilance of the bom duenna. Visitors and con-
spirators came and went ; other Bretcuils, from their various apart-
ments in the big mansion, looked in; but the Spanish lessons
went on at their appointed times with praiseworthy regularity. Was
much Spanish learnt? She was an apt pupil there is little doubt,
but she was learning sweeter lessons than even the sweet Spanish
tongue.

*' I have been translating a verse from English into French," be said
to her in a low tone one evening as they sat demurely " studying."

" Wliat is it ? " she asked, full of eager interest and admiration for
ail be might say or do.

" It is a quatrain that my father composed for me ; I should like
you to know it. I have rendered it into blank verse, according to
ibe English (aahion, which is verse without rhyme, but not without
reason, as you wiU sec"

mm. ccxci. v<x 3048, ^

l«6

Tfte Gentlentan* s Magazine.

He handed her a slip of paper— a paper that she stUl treasured
when her hair was gray — on which was written :

**Quand vosyeux, en tuussant, ft'oovraient i la Itunii-rc,
Chacan vous sourioit, mon fUs, et vous pleuriet.
VWn sj Wen, (^u'un jour, a. voire dcrniirc bcurCi
Cbacun verse des pleor* et qu'on vous voie sourire."

Another evening he told her, in a quiet monotone that might have
been tlie mutleiings of Spanish grammar, the latest story from
London. A rich Dutch heiress had fled to England with one of the
adherents of the detested William of Orange. Her relatives had no
clue as to her whereabouts, so they caused an advertisement to
appear in the London papers, beseeclung her to come back to the
home her absence had made desolate ; or, if she would not return, at
least to send them the key of the tea-chest which she had, by mistake,
carried off with her !

A simple enough storj', in Irulh, but the lever, nevertheless, which
moved the balance in which hung great fortunes ! Anything whereby
the Orangists — whom, as good Jacobites, they virtuously hated — were
held up to ridicule would have tickled the lively imagination of
firteen, and the two sat laughing decorously, delighted to share a joke,
"however small. Emilie, )^^ gauche cousin, scowling sulkily from her
comer, concluded, with tlie angry sensitiveness of a child, that they
leere laughing at her, though nothing could have been further from
their thoughts, which, with the egotism of love, simply flowed from
one to the other ! However, as soon as Emilie could obtain a
bearing she made such spiteful, envious remarks, that the Earl
Marischal, foUo^ving his inclination, and in self-defence, made a
formal proposal for the hand of Mademoiselle de Froulay.

This was a serious matter ! A de Froulay bom, and an heiress
to boot, was not to be promised in marriage lightly. The proposal
vas, with due ceremony, submitted to her father, her grandmother —
a quaint old lady who wore five rows of corkscrew curls, and an open
coat over a skirt embroidered with all the beasts of the ark in siU-er
thread — and her eldest aunt, the vain, dry-hcatled woman residing in
the Hotel Breleuil who lived only for show and vanity. Made-
moiselle waited for their decision with rosy pictures floating nebulous,
unbidden, like sunset clouds across her menu Ivision ; pictures, tUas 1
that too soon were rudely brushed aside by bitter realities.

" He is a ProlesUuit, a Calvinist I " almoict shrieked her aunt, llie
Countess, when the object of the family condave w;ls declared.

Poor little Mademoiselle! It was the dreadful truth, though

Tk$ Lmx Simy ^ mm Oid JKvts^ 1S7

BO ooe had CBqpnedKftD is ■'iTpjiiii anes adccK. cnw^
doubt, became aesiraX goad Jmsxms wsss cood CsiSiriass;
Questianed oa the sojec:, ce Ezi VTrSr^raa ovzoi x. an^^,
ti nim^l fai MM Jy , icdaag too «e£ ssk ae ^as aos "^^^t^ a aocae^
faopdesa^ lawpamfcibh, faetvets ^na aac is iavc *^*'*' ttw^, xhoc
«as 00 more Id be said. "Vth Ae tiiLtwaj-g m^iAsjuu mSach a
the lost Irarhihe of the Qkc&l i^pk thscm ^is s soo^iietiK
bohaik of jytlnMilf, ViiliiaiiiTi de Froebr bo«ed ha poor
little taOcring faeut to the iaetittbie, nthoac hesaanoe^ seeftaog
DO comptoaust, thmfcfng of i» ■i^'im Their rmoi%ir pax
jomig dream vas coded byau^tanmeof pWEMn? saSenxig; and
the £art Marisdalkft '-*"**'*"'*'; far his 000007, vbere, leDdercd
the more '^«^*^"^ bf the cznel coodosiaa of las brre-idriU be
duev hinisrif wkfa iccUess Ast^pod into tbe copyracy vbich
coded in the disastroos risxi^ of i7i5<

HisvasDohalfheaztedaD^iaDoe; his methods voe too dedsiw
and direct to admit of any doobe as to whkh caose he had espoused.
He maiched at the head of a company of nobles to the town of Aber-
deen, where at the maiket cross he prodaimcd King James VIII^
and, for a few brief wedcsi town and district, in a foot's paradise of
delusion, were subject to Jacobite rulers. Then came the day of
awakening, the disastrous day of Sherifimuir, where the rising hopes
of the Stuart party were dispersed like mist-wreaths before the wind.
The Earl Marischal commanded two squadrons, and in the utter
rout managed to escape to the continent

Some time after this he wrote a letter to Madame la Baronnc, full
of sadness and desp^, telling her of the grievous failure of the
Jacobite enterprise; adding that his estates were forfeited and he
hims^ attainted.

Bereft of his lands, a price on his head, he wandered to various
courts of Europe, wasting the best years of his life, as did so many
others, for the foolish futile Jacobite cause. He intrigued with
Spsun, and, two years after the " fifteen," again attempted to misc a
rebellion in Scotland in the abortive campaign organised by Cardinal
Alberoni ; then, again escaping with disaster, he sought refuge at the
Spanish Court, where for many years he was intermittently entrusted
with political missions. Finally, in middle life he drifted to tlio
Court of Prussia, where the Great Frederick, perceiving the worth
and wasted abilities of this unfortunate nobleman, ofTcrod him bin
kingly friendship, and showered honours on him, in appreciation of
his brilliant quoUties. He created him Knight of the Black Eaglo of
Prussia; he appointed him Governor of a diitrict in Switzerland ;

x88

The Gentlcmans Magaziiu,

and, in 1751, sent him as Prussian Ambassador to the Court of
France. • • • * •

Half a lifetime had passed. The young Mademoiselle de
Froulay had long since become the Marquise de Crdquy, a very
great lady, and distinguished in that vicious age for the exquisite
propriety of her life. She had become a grandmother too ; but
though a true wife, with an admiring apprecialion of her husband'5
many excellent virtues, yet in the treasure house of her memory
illumined by the halo that hovers round happy days, she cherished
the romantic recollection of her first love which had blossomed and
suffered blighL The Earl Marischal of Scotland was still her hero,
still the fauldess young lover who liad never fidten in her esteem
because of the wear of life's daily demands and duties. She had no
thought of ever seeing him again ; nought save a remembrance
which was, as she said, " toujours honorable ti chh-t." Then, one day,
they met in the presence of Madame de Ncvers, he in the white-
haired seventies, she with the griefs and joys of more than half a
century traced with Time's graver on her face and heart.

"Listen," he said to her, after their first formal greetings, " listen
to the only French verse I have ever made, perhaps the only reproach
I have ever directed to you :

" Uq tfait lano^ par caprice

M'aUvignit tlaiu mon priotcinps.
J*cn porte U cicatrice

Encor tous oies cheveux blaocS'
**Cniignes les nuax qn'amour cause,
Et plaignCK un imeiit^
Qui n'a point cueilli la rose,
Et qiielVpinea blessi."

They were both deeply afiected. Tears glittered in his proud eyes.
. . . She was transported in thought to the beautiful unfulfilled dream
of their youth. After a few moments of emotional silence she asked :

" Are you soon going back to the King of Prussia ? Sliall we be
separated for ever ? Are you still unconverted ?"

" I am yours after as before death," he said simply. " I
loved you too well not to embrace your religion. What other faith
could hare given you the strength to make such an unmurmuring
sacrifice? I have become a Catholic in sjjirit and in truth."

They never met again, but that declaration ft-as, for the old
Marquise, a sweet assurance for the rest of her long life. With the
serene absolute faith of her religion she looked forward In quiet hope
to the happy future, when those two, who bad been so mercilessly
parted in their youth, would meet again in the Iranscti - of

die Bright Uercafict. jAVt- ,....-..

iS5

THE EVOLUTION OF THE
MODERN GENTLEMAN.

IT is a little disappninTing tbjt sach an ardeiit sodctogst as ICr.
HertieTt Spencer has not dcTX>ted a portisa of h» imTVTi^
cneigrto a dqnrtnient of science which is stiktly anrhropotogpca! —
die evolutioa of a gendemazL The title of gentlesan oovcn in-
tcfpretadm of a tboosand shades, azid is S3 cxKn-eniesr^j vagae that
the reseazches of reisatile genius would hare a wide fidd for
borrowii^ cot the first notioos of gentilitj firom the most piimiilie
stzata. True enough, the perrexse interTO^doa of the old rhpncr
voold seem to place such ipTcstigation oioder lixcis :

VEIkb Ad>nt ddred and Ere ^aa.

But we have learned now to ph3oscphise without foondic^ on a
state of nature, and we arc entitled to a sospidon that the notion
of gentility is traceable from a cmde and early derelopment It
is a culpable sin of omission to be laid to the accoont of those
people who have raked tc^etber the data of anthropology from the
ft^-kne of countless ages that they have left us in outer darkness
cm the origin of this interesting sentiment. When we do recognise
the gentleman, he comes in on the full tide of an advanced drilisa-
tion. He has already the brilliance and wit of the modem gentleman,
and we are left in wonderment to look for the link of coimection
between him and the days <rf^his remote parentage, when bis ancestors
sought to assimilate the qualities of their respected dead relatiTes
by makirtg them the meet considerable item of a substantial dinner.
In the absence of convincing evident to the contrary the assumption
may be permitted that this laudable desire, in spite of the distinctly
disagreeable form in which it was meant to be realised, was a spedes
of reverent homa^^ to " superior quality " which must be taken as
a ron^ synonym for primitiiw gentility.

Beyond this it would scarcely be safe to infer much m<xe from
Eesearches among the Yncas or the Kbonds. But among andent

igo

The Gentleman s Magazine,

historians Herodotus* inclinations and tastes set strongly in the
direction of such interesting questions, and from a patient collation
of his entertaining tales it would be possible even to piece together
types of the primitive gentlefolk. There were people in Athens
who set great store by a long pedigree— a pedigree so long, in fact,
that some professed to be descended from an asparagus.

There were the great folk of Eg)'pt and the lesser folk, and the
privileges of the former were considerable. They indulged the
luxury of emtjalming in its most expensive form ; they were entitled
for a consideration to have their brains drawn out through the nostrils
with an iron hook, and to have the body stuffed with " pure myrrh,
pounded cassia, and other perfumes, frankincense excepted." Hero-
dotus also tells us that superior quality had substantial recognition,
especially among the Royal Scythians. In the burial riles there was
a wonderful elaboration of detail. "In the remaining space of the
grave they bury one of the king's ladies, having strangled her, and
his cu|}-bearer, a cook, a groom, a page, a courier, and horses, and
firstlings of everything else, and golden goblets; they make no use
of silver and brass,"

There is another charming story of Hlppocleides, the son of
Tisandcr, who surpassed the Athenians in wealth and beauty. It
throws a sidelight on the accomplishments of the people of quality.
Hlppocleides had come among a company of gentlemen to woo
the hand of the wealthy Qeisthenes' daughter. '*When the day for
the consummation of the marriage arrived, and for the declaration
of Cleisthencs himself, whom he would choose of lliem all, Cleislhenes
having sacrificed a hundred oxen, entertained both the suitors them-
selves and all the Sicyonians ; and when they had concluded the
feast the suitors had a contest about music, and any subject proposed
for conversation. As the drinking went on, Hlppocleides, who
much attracted the attention of the rest, ordered the flute player to
play a dance ; and when the flute player obeyed he began to dance ;
and he danced, probably so as to please himself; but Cleistfacoes
seeing it beheld the whole matter wiih suspicion. Afterwards,
Hippodeidcs, having rested awhile, ordered someone to bring in a
table ; and when the table came in he first danced Laconian figures
on it, and then Attic ones ; and in the third place, having leant his
head on the table he gesticulated with his legs. But Cleislhenes,
when he danced the first and second time, revolted from the tliought
of having Hlppocleides for his son-in-law, on account of his dancing
and want of decorum, yet restrained himself, not wishing to burst out
■gainst him ; but when he saw him gesticulating will) his legs, he wu-

The EvoiuiioH of ike Modern Gentleman. 191

no longer able to restrain biaiself, and said, ' Son of Tisander, you
hare danced away your marriage.' But Hippocleides answered : 'Oh,
it's all one to Hippocleides.' Hence it became a proverb." But the
prototype of the modern gentleman is something diiTerent from this.
There is a degree of narvet^ in the earliest types of which the well-
bred man would protest his innocence.

The Athenian gentleman of antiquity is really the fount and
source of the modem social virtues. The wisdom of the philosopher
had defined him as the kuAdc MyaOtict but unfortunately the moral
and spiritual significance of the term speedily disappeared. The
nature of gentility chose to develop the more material concep-
tion of the "man made up to the nail," which was the rougher
Roman idea. Contrasts between ideals and reality are always in^
structive, and very often amusing. The scrupulous attention which
the Greek philosopher paid to the elaboration of the gentleman
makes a chapter of ethics read like a handbook of modem etiquette.
Aristotle's magnificent man and liigh-minded man, and their opposites,
exactly embody the idea of what a gentleman should be and what
he should not. There is just the taint of moral pcndantry, a kind
of intellectual snobbery in the descriptions which is apt to place the
gentleman in a somewhat ridiculous light. By piecing together his
various characteristics as they are scattered through a Classification
of the Virtues and Vices, we have the conditions of " quality " in a
mosaic

"The magnificent man is like a connoisseur in art; he has the
faculty of perceiving what is suitable, and of spending Lu^e sums of
money with good taste. . , . He will spend his money, too, in a
cheerful and lavish spirit, as a minute calculation of expense is a
mark of meanness. He will consider how a work can be made
most beautiful and most suitable, rather than how much it will cost,
ai>d how it can be done in the cheapest way. . . . [Magnificence]
displays itself on such private occasions as occur once in a lifetime
—t^. marriage and the like."

Whereas the ungentlemanly fellow " exceeds in spending more
than is nght, for he spends large sums on triUcs and nuikes a display
which is offensive to good taste, as, e^. by entertaining members of
his club at a breakfast which is as sumptuous as a wedding breakfast^
and if he provides a comic chorus, by bringing the members of it on
the stage in purple dresses, after the manner of tlic Megarians."
After this criticwm in lesthetics he presents the roan of quality in
aaotbex lighL " It would seem, too, that the high-minded man
poncHes such greatness as belongs to every virtue. It would b«

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The Gentkma^Cs Magazine.

wholly inconsistent with the character of the high-minded man to
run away in hot haste, or to commit a crime ; for what should t>e
his object in doing a disgraceful action, if nothing Ls great in his
eyes? . . . Such honour as is paid by ordinary people and on trivial
grounds, he will utterly despise, as he deserves something better than
this. ... He will not be exceedingly elated by good, or excessively
depressed by ill-fortune ; for he is not affected in this way by honour
itself as if honour tuere the greatest thing in the world. Again, the
high-minded man is not fond of encountering small dangers, nor is
he fond of encountering dangers at all, as there are few things which
he values enough to endanger himself for them. . . .

" Accordingly he will tell the truth loo, except when he is ironical,
although he will use irony in dealing with ordinary people." With
the same gravity Aristotle proceeds: "It seems too that the high-
minded man will be slow in his movements, his voice will be deep,
and his manner of speaking sedate, for it is not likely that a man
will be in a hurry, if there are not many things that he cares for, or
that he will be emphatic, if he does not regardanything as important,
and these are the causes which moke people speak in shrill tones
and use rapid movements."

Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, the Greek gentleman de-
clined to conform to this prim and rigid canon of gentility. Earlier
than this by a few centuries the lyric poets embodied in their verses
the non-ethical interpretation of the sentiment. It is on this inter-
pretation that the modern spirit has seized, and in accordance with
it the modern idea has been moulded. The philosophers' gentleman
is still the endless theme of sundry homilies, but he is none the less
an abstraction and is likely to remain so. Horace Walpolc protested
that he was not a learned man, only a gentleman, who pottered
among chipped vases and ladies' epigrams and court scandal ; he
would have shuddered if his gay friends had read the AristotcUan
meaning into his title of gentleman. The man " foursquare without
a flaw " was an instructive ideal, but for bone of our bone and flesh
of our flesh we must turn back from the vapounngs of philosophy to
the truer instincts of poetry. Lesbian song, for instance, welled up
from the pure springs of a busy commercial class. But active
commercial life, the restless and varied existence of those luurdy
folk whose business was in the waters, had in it little that was sordid
and nothing that was prosaic. Tbe old nobility cast their spell upon
society, and tinged with romance the merest commonplaces of life.
Love, wine, politics, or warfare are the inexhaustible theme Tliese
n'rid pictaresi Earned in tcattercd fragmenU of verse, profess to deal

The EtfohUion of ike Modem Gentleman, 193

with nothing but the truth. They have at times seemed IQcely to
pay the price of their candour, and have perhaps been rightly de-
scribed as too realistic for the cold morality of Northern Protestantism.
Here at any rate is the gentleman's life as it really was lived, and in
the life of the modem gentleman history repeats itself. There is
none of the mawkishness of the erode poetry of the Roman deca-
dence. The Greek gentleman is unschooled in artifice : his very
excesses are half redeemed by their freshness.

There is the old story of the man and the maid, but the old story
possesses more than its ordinary interest when it is told by Alcaeuj
and Si^pho and in their own words. Alcaeus writes ardently in
praise of his mistress, *'pur^ soft-smiling Sappho." He would speak
with her, but shame prevents him. The lady replies in his own
metre, but will take neither his meaning nor his pleasure. Her
suspkicm is conveyed to him in a chilling hypothesis. Shame would
ncA prevent him from open speech with her, did he not harbour
some evil intent or thought But Sappho herself had to feel that
love was not so fair as fickle. The scattered fragments of hex verse
are a pathetic chapter of the intensest human passion. The sorrow
ai)d anguish that are of the essence of love and are mingled with
love's enchantment are drawn in sore travail from the souL There
is a world of unuttered passion in her complaining of Eros (Gk. Ipvt) :

lovtf that *' bitter sweet irresistible beast"

Cmel } but love makes all that love him well
As wise as heaven and crueller than hell.
Me hath love made more bitter towards thee
Than death toward man ; but were I made as He
Who hath made all things to break them one by one,
If my feet trod upon the stars and sun.
And souls of men as His have always trod,
God knows I might be crueller than God. *

Modem prudery has seen fit to lift its skirts and tread daintily
by the most beautiful of those sacred relics. Modernism is un-
speakably shocked at the unconventionality— that is what pricks the
modem social sense — of such regrets as the following —

Af'Svict fiiw A ffXAtn
winrn, n^ V Ipx^'"' *P«i

* Swmbome, Anoctoria.

* * The moon has set, and the Pleiads, and it is midnight, and the hoar goes by,
bat I lie alone.*

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The GentUmans Magazine.

This is only a benighted fragment, and perhaps we dare not attempt
an interpretation of it out of its context ; but against it and a few
others Uke it have been levelled the venomed lances of outraged
prudery, and the poor lady has been covered with epithets which
have little flavour of charity.

The home of the Lesbian was chosen by nature to be the sacred
precinct of love. In the white heat of those southern gardens the
languor of love as the languor of laden flowers settled on all created
things. Gardens lit nith ablaze of colour; fountains that sprayed
refreshment on the weariness of noontide, orchards where the
quivering leaves ministered shade and fruit ; music of nature that
never ended, day or night This was the environment of the poetry
of passion.

The verses of Alcaeus read like a prophecy of our Cavalier fore-
fathers, the gay gentlemen of Oxfordshire who rode well to hounds
and drew their swords for the king. The storms of politics no less
than the storms of love have gone to the fashioning of a gentleman.
And wine, " wine that maketh glad the heart of man," Alcaeus has
cro\vned with a rarer chaplet than the flowers with which he often
decked the brimming cup. The soldier poet is familiar to our
history and fiction, especially of the se^-enleenth century.

Now, ye wild blades, thai make loose inns yoor stage
To Ttpout forth the acts of tbU &sd age,
Stoot Edgchill fight, the NcwUrrics or ihc West,
And nortliern ckJihcs, where yon stitl fought l>est ;
Your strar^e escapes, your dangers void of fear.
When bullets flew between the head and car.
Whether you fought by Damnie or the Spirit,
Of you I speak.

Naturally their loyalty and their wine were boon companions ;
Bring the bowl which yon boast,

FtU it up to the brim ;
Tis to him we love most,

And to all who love htm.
Brave gallants, stand Qp,

And avQUDt, yc base cutn.
Were there death in the ojp,

Here's 0 health to King Charles I

The riot of wine road mirth is preserved in the following venes
from " Wine, Women and Song " :

In the public bouse to die

Is my resolution ;
Let wine to my Up* be lu^

At life's dissolution j

TJk^ Evoimtum of tie Modem GemUemau 395

Wia fftA CKit'irtiim,

Canlier poetmsten cf oar cnm kind.

Alcaens was a better pod -Aaxix v^r^tm^ viiersK onr paar
TOldaJccs were mosc mmbfe vjdi titeir swords ssar vxii liKar
Ttnei. When it came to s«ard pbj die T-rKThr" gk7:>"Tr Knaed
onthesideof pnideDce; ibf; after aC,

Be wso "jpff ibb mBf- ^^tw

Bat the irresastifaSc " genilexBis of booarr,*' id zneet vbccL Crsmr^in
was baxd at woric Tnining bis tspcen, did itiSSis sernix fir iu
sacxed Majesty thin for the saccd Xiasi zad x woclf ut so pDft
Ubd on bis it^mes at least to a^7 tc. rbos tie secsa-f 'isit cc :bs
old c{ut^ph of —

Wbo fanfce tic }>vs tf Go£ Z3k£ b>c ans aesrsv
The lore-malciiig <^ tbe Gredcs rans^ ':^ ^r^^rtr^r zr:,:: fi,i j-j
with a touch of l^;hter romaixs. Tbs '^^jff'gr v£X czrn&d cc: wt^
aU tbe aits that a lorer coiJd cxxssazA fcr "Ha urrice c^ :ii btuvr^^
and of an the gende arts tbe sercad* V2s iL* j^ti^tsr. izti. zi.'jvt
atnactive. Mr. Symoads \vnafrr^ tbe foUc/wia? ^it 1-^ r-ivt r.,t:ai
sang by an Athenian \oxts UDder it -rL-xivir ctf ili Er>:^dei :

Siine Ibnh, 1=7 ^^£c= fe-,.

My loTtJj- rn> cot !
S««et bod of batrrr, TsrC-ig U bearre£*i snoe !

Tim funs &oe
Of aD tlvt ticccB ^i<'^ '<^ «^~'*^ cutL :

Wby wC: :b=c si=
These Tor£s '.lii vile iLee ^c 1 Lap;ier berth,

TLoB iboe^^d^coe.'

K«y, (far ms aoE : be: nse !

And let Hsj imogerei
Be to me u tlie li^

Wliidi anioas nigfat
For all his doods and ifaidovs cumot dwe awar !

It is Melaiubiia cries :
Arise! Arise!

And beam apoa faim vhb tfay spirit's day 1
Nay, ere he dies.

Be piti&il, aod ease
TIk UngDor of bb knre^ Endbdes I

■J. A. SynoodL (OiBtto & WndH, 18S4.)

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The GeniUmans Magazine,

It is not liard, either, to find out what were the accessories and
perquisites of the gentle life. The Athenian gentleman had other
pleasures besides a well appointed table. For, after all, cxceUent cakes
and loaves, wine-bibbing, the wearing of garlands, and a provident
begetting of children were minor and even sordid cares. No doubt it
was a pleasant employment to loiter over a dessert of figs and peas
and beans, to roast myrtle benies and beech nuts at the fire, and to
taste with the precision of a connoisseur the most delicate Attic
confectionery ; but if a gentleman was to be something more than an
epicure and fly the reproach of belonging to a mere " City of Pigs "
he had to affect a much wider range of interests. A categorical
enumeration of these would be tedious, but it was the profession of a
gentleman to admire painting and embroider)-, to acquire valuables
in gold and ivory, to practise the arts and music, to indulge rhapso-
dists, actors, and dancers. A subsidiary item was an army of tutors,
wet-nurses, dry-nurses, tirc-woraen, barbers, cooks, and of course
doctors.

It was not the genius of the Roman lo add much that was
original to the sentiment^ but he strutted pompously in magnificent
and borrowed plumes. Greece set the fashion, and Rome pat on
the old-fashioned bra^ciy without an attempt at improvisation on
her own account. At first it sat awkwardly, and was nc%'eT worn
tf illiout some apology or with an uneasy consciousness of guilt But
at length the uneasy feeling passed away and the Roman wore his
gilded accomplishments with an air of original proprietorship. And
fine gentlemen tliere were in plenty, though the idea of gentility was
cast in a more material and luxurious mould. Moral pedants like
Cato kept haughtily aloof from contamination with the accursed
thing, but conservatism of that sort was whimsical and problematic.
There is no need to search for illustrations of the amours and
symposium of the Roman gentleman in the erotic poetry of Ladn
literature. The pages of Roman histor)- blaze with his brillLincc.

The infection spread to the Senate and the camp, and a gcntle-
tnan's romance hovered over the "House" and perched upon the
Imperial Eagles. Pompey, we are told, was so handsome that
Roman ladies wished to bite him ; and modem biographers of the
great Julius have complained because Cxsar's good looks and cliarm-
ing manners made him the object of malicious scandal which
involved him in endless complications and impossible intrigues with
half the married women of Rome ! The distracted Cicero at an
important crisis could do nothing but wring his hands and spitefully
bemoan the inactivity of his colleague Pompey, who tat speechlea

Thi EvQluiion of ike Modem Gentleman.

in ParUarnent admiring his 6ne clothes. And yet Cicero himself
sedulously cultivated the life of a gendeman, and in bis pleadings
before the jary indulged in raptcroas excursions into the fairyland
of art and rashion, and, fearful lest be should stop short of any one
accomplisbmcnt tn the cxacUng title, with pathetic canity he look to
anting poetry. A gentleman poetaster is always a picturesque figure,
but the father of the fatherland in such an association is as ridiculous
as Frederick the Great galloping from a lost battle wth a quire of bad
verses in one pocket and a ^*ia] of poison in the other. Cicero
represents what is best in Roman society. He was a ntftwx hom»
and had little to boast of in the imagines which were the pride and
glory of the great Patrician houses. After him we have plenty of well
preserved portraits of the Roman gentleinan, but they are such as to
dazxle and confuse without delighting the eye. The whole is too
plainly oventudied ; there is a lavishness in detail which vitiates
ihe general effect The excesses of the Greek gentleman were
picturesque divergences from a prim canon of taste ; the excesses
of the Roman gentleman were only the painful exaggerations of a
part that was already overdone.

The gigantic resolution which inaugurated the triumph of the
Teutonic nations altered social no less than political conditions. It
ao excellent tonic, which braced a nervous system enervated
nost past hope. It seemed at first as if this terrible physic would
stroy the system with its pitiless ravages, but the wreckage of the
"old constitution harboured vitality enough to support the strong
infusion of new life. The immediate prototype of the modem
gentleman occupies an interesting period of transition between the
old and new schools. Christianity put a new face on many aspects
of the old Roman civilisation, and from the nature of things it
played havoc with the traditional sentiment of gentility. And here
again there is no need to evolve the man of quality from the
diecadenl literature of a dotard civilisation, for he is part and parcel
of history. The Hfe of Augustine is a curious episode in the long
history of this sentiment of gentility. In a little volume of the
Confessions there are prefaced categorically the main facts of a life
full of incident and interest styled "Compendiosa D. August ini vila
cum suis annorum notis." ' Under \ht praapua facta is a statement
of his conversion which marks an interesting di\-ision — '* Tandem
Delesti voce pcrcussus convcrtitur." It is interesting because previous
I the *' percussion " which effected his conversion he appears to have

• 4$tguitiHi CwfiuimHM Libri Trtdicim. roriHU iftjmd Kogei ei F. Oienwritt

198

TIic Genliefttan* s Alagazine,

typified the gentleman of the Inter I^tin culture. He "professes"
rhetoric at Carthage, and pays overmuch respect to astrology ; he
repairs to Rome ; later he professes the artcm oraioriam^ falls under
the influence of Amhrose, and is gathered in sinum Eciksta
€athoU(a, Under the lenz of an ascetic, and espedally an ascetic
taking posterity for his father confessor, the virtues and ^ices of
the gentleman are viewed with Utile discrimination and dismissed
with scant respect.

On the vanity of elegant accomplishments he delivers himself
thus : "Scducebamur et seduccbamus, falsi atquc fallentes in vants
cupiditatibus, el palam per dociritms, quas liberates vocanf^ occulte
autcm falso nomine religionis ; hie superbi, ibi snpcrstitiosi, ubiquc
vani. Hac popularis gloriae sectantes inanitatem, usque ad thcatricos
plausus et contentiosa carmina, et agonem, coronarum foeDearum, ct
spectaculorum nugas, ct intemperantiam libidinum." In the fourth
book he asks with the indignation of rhetoric what the ten categories
of Aristotle had availed him when a pupil under a Carthaginian
master, who is humorously described lecturing with extraordinary
vigour, " buccis typho crepantibus " ! He lays it rather bitterly to the
charge of the liberal arts that they did not save him from the lust of
the flesh : " Et quid raihi proderat, quod omncs libros artium quas
liberales voeant, tunc nequissimus malarum cupidiiatura servus, per
TOc ipsum Icgi et intellexi, quoscumque legerc polui?"

But after his conversion and baptism he still retains his old
sestheiic tastes, and in his most ecstatic moments he confesses how
deeply the swell of mighty music moved him: "Quantum flevi
in hymnis et canticis tuis, suave sonantis Ecclesi<c tuae vodbus
commotus acriterl Voces illx influebant auribus meis, et eliqua-
batur Veritas lua in cor mcum ; ct cxzcstuabai inde affectus pictatis,
ct currcbant lacrj'mx, et bene mihi crai cum eis."

Speaking of the pleasures of the ear in a similar strain he
confesses his partiality : " Aliquando enim plus mihi videor honoris eis
tribuere quamdecet; dum ipsis Sanctis diclis religiosius, et ardentiuB
sentio moveri onlmos nostros in Bammam pietatis, ctun ita cantaatur,
quam si non ita cantarentur."

To be sure the reason of his commendation is a pious one :
"Adducor . . . cantandiconsuetudinemapprobareinecclcsia; utpcr
obleclamcnta auriura infirmior animus in affectum pietatis assurgat."

He bridles himself also against the temptations of the eye, and
in his enumeration of these he is evidently taking a retrospective
glance at his owti former tastes. The passage is well worth quoting,
and is in his usual omatc and abundant style. " Quam innumerabilii,

TiU ^smUtatt of Uu M^dtrm GaUlamsm, 199

rTuiis ambus «t apAda, m fcsbbos, oVginrnlBi nsb^ et oijnsqDftJ
okofi bbootiaaibaift pktaris etiua dHvsbqoe fiemeoci^ atqtte
«*«tti iiinwiiBm alque moderatam «( [mm agntfioixwem fec^sef
tmi niuli< iMifaitL irtriirtrnifit hnrnfnrr w1 illiTrhfir nrrrlnrmn 1 '
Tlw Biodem jyjMhnnri of our o«n bad iriQ reoMnber wiUi j
pride tloC lie does oot derive his Htfe exdodvety &oai the social
^-irtoes of HePcnian. There ms an abonghul snb«tnte which
provided the musexy far a more preSeodoiB ioipoKtaiioa. Befonti
the Roonm soldier or the Romftxicuhnzc had pBSSed into these idaodi:
there wen gentlefolk of a son, people of quality with an innate
of the finer things around them. Men of leieen hkail
I or Dion Cassias were at pains to git^e a studied mtsnpi«»^
1 of the distant islandersL A patxiotic Scotsman attributes
I paxdonable superstition snch descriptiona of the Caledonian of j
I dmes as include him in a species of " semi-aquatic anitna^ '
who passed the greater portion of bis time sirimming in the lochs.**
Grtek roDumce and the tales of CirtruTeUed men boldly dis-
cotined of ooe-lboted folk and of strange fantasies in the ro}-al lijia]
"Thulc. "They" (the ancients), says Gibbon, "sometimes amuscdJ
• ttncy by filling the \-acam spaces irith headless men, or rather
with horrid and cloven-footed satyrs, with fabulous
anrs, and with human pigmies, who waged a bold and doubtful
lirai^ire against the cranes." Of fiction and ftiiry tale of this sort
nothing can be made ; all wc have to go upon in the way of conjec-
ture ore the KjoAkeNmoddin^ or kitchen middens, the relics of the
fiift Age, yet even this prehistoric epoch has its affinity with the
later ages of culture. " Even if many linlcs in the chain that binds
^tbe present to the past be tost, notwithstanding the facility with
rhich the Scot has been credited for constructing a pedigree, wc
have doubtless his living representative among us still, were we only
acute enough to discover him."^ A rudimeniary conception of art
expressed itself in homely and natural fashion. Lubbock speaks <
the passion for self-omamcntation as prevailing among the lowest, at]
much as if not more than among the more civilised races of man-
itind.' Another hbtorian finds in the beads and amulets of the
gra%*e] deposits, in the charncl houses of a rude and hoary antiquity
in the rudely ornamented urm, in the axe-heads of exquisite work-
man&liip, in the mouldering relics of the funeral feast, an cxpressio
, of the ambition to realise one's strength in the contcmpkilion of the
firork of one's bands, an impressive monitor "that so it has been

' Mackinnon, CitUufv in Earljr SfOtiaaJ^

20O

The Gentleman s Magazine^

from of yore, for the same soul moves in primeval savage and
modem philosopher, though it reveals itself after a different fashion."

The West slowly took the impression of Roman culture. It
passed from Gaul to the British shores ; and for long it was accounted
the fascination of a magic for the undoing of liberty, a delicious but
resistless power. That Thule possessed a professor for itself is
probably no more than the fancy of Martial and Juvenal, but that
Britain was the conquest of the Gallic schoolmaster is one side of
sober truth.

It would be idle to look for any great refinement of taste among
a wild untamed people who were as yet only the bewildered
spectators of an invader who came with stranger and more potent
weapons than the sword and flaming brand. When at length the
glory of the new culture and the religion of Christ had stirred tliem
to emulation, they turned to the building of abiding monuments,
which with their grave and decorous proportions were the silent
prophets of the triumphs of western architecture. The genius and
cuUure of every age have studied to reproduce themselves in
the elegance and magnificence of public buildings. "L'archi-
tccture a ^l^ jusqu'au quinzieme siecle le registre principal de
rhumaniti5 . . . toutc id^c populairc comme loute loi religieuse
a eu ses monuments ; le genre humain enfin n'a rien pens^
d'important qu'il ne I'ait ^crit en pierre . . . L'architccture est le
grand Uvre de I'humanitt!, I'cxprcssion principale dc Phommc & ses
divers tftats de ddveloppement, soit comme force, soit comme
intelligence."'

Romance has made King Arthur the centre of a large cj-cle of
legends, and the character of the king has been woven at the poet's
pleasure and fancy to wear well on soldier, saint, or gentleman. He
was born of some ancient God, the idol of bardic enthusiasm, but
under the hand of Geoffrey rose into splendid prominence in
mcdiicval romance. At the end of the twelfth century, when a historian
had to clothe his thoughts in language suitable to the exacting taste
of the gentle life, Jocdinc, the monk of Fumess Abbey, made a
biography of the less shadowy figure of Kentigern. It was his
business to present to his readers not so much a saint as the hero of
a modern novel, *' to clothe so precious a treasure, if not in gold tissue
and silk at least in clean linen." Of Kentigern himself nothing can
be known with any certainty : it is doubtful if his rigid asceticism
would fall in with the easy m /^ • • ,an in orden

a span of ceiUuries later. 11. . ' _ : :. of him that

* Victor Hugo, N6tn-l>*m* 4* iiaiu

Tks Evoiution of (he Modem Gtnthman. 201

** tbe Sight or tooch of the most beautiful maiden had no more effect
tqpon him than the hardest fiint" For the age of the biographer we
[ this was a most unpalatable reminiscence — even of a saint
; arc not surprised to find that the Celtic monk savoured more
of tbe gentleman than the Calvinistic Puritin. He tempered his
piety with that cool sense of refreshment which King James sighed
for in the Presbyterian ism of his Northern KJngdom. The Celt
indulged the human passion for ornament, and his piety glowed
liom an environment dainty and delicate with a hundred and one
pleanng trifles. "Even yet," says Dr. Mackinnon, "it requires no
small courage on the part of the candidate for the favour of a Presby-
terian congregation to appear on the day of the preadiing match with
a ring on his finger ! I hare known more than one aspirant for a
parish who was prudent enough to denude himself of this emblem of
worldlincss, and carry it in his vest pocket for the occasion.'* Bui those
innocent concessions to refined habits of living did nothing to
traduce the Celtic monk from the purpose of his calling. By an
ingenious trick of plastic art, the representations of Pagan mytho-
logy were enlisted in the service of the Christian Church. The
gorgeous bestiaries of the Middle Ages are traceable to the cultivation
of morality by the symbolism of animal life. The centaurs and
winged genii were bat the old Pagan pictures set in a new frame.
Orpheus was rapidly converted into the Good Shepherd, and the
dragon which guarded Andromeda made a tolerable whale of sufficient
capacity at least for Jonah. That immortal allegory, richly sculp-
tfifcd, served the ecclesiastics well when speech was helpless before
the great mysteries of religion. It may have been a little crude, but
as a symbol of the resurrection the interpretation was unmistakable
and irresistible. Those who wish to harvest all the attainable
information of a bjgone culture must examine with their own eyes
the quaint museum of curios that tdl thctr own story of the gentle.
life of the dark centuries.

Epilogue.

The eighteenth century, the century of gentlemen, is most represen-
tative of the style and sentiment of modem gentility. The preceding
centuries contented themselves rather with conning isolated lessons
learned from the old schools of fashion and culture. There is to be
found a curious gentry in the p.igcs of history and romance ; a
robuster sort tj'piGcd by Duke Humphrey of Oloucester, a man of
ttttexs who combined his bookish tastes with a genius for intrigue
in politics and the embarrassments of love. There are the gentle

TOL. ccxci. so. 2048. p

202

The Genliemans Magazine,

pUgrims of Chaucer's creation, who rode upon a day to Canterbury in
all the bravery in which the observant worldly wise poet si;t them
forth. There are the bold knights who could pay the prettiest com-
pliments to the Virgin Queen, and win or lose a fortune in the high
seas with the reckless gaiety of the pirate who was nothing if not a
gentleman. There are the knavish gentlemen of history like
Wharton, whose manners were shining and irresistible, who was
nercrthcless, in the conceit of the old Tory, " the most universal
villain I ever knew " — the Satan of apostate Whiggism.

But my Lord Chesterfield of the eifjhleentli century is the best epi-
logue of the fine sentiment. He gathers together all the subject matter
pertaining to it, and presents his son with the ethics of gentility in a
body of precise and terse laws. In his advice there is a punctilious-
ness that would bear comparison with Aristotle, though further com-
parison is impossible in the matter of morals. Such comments as
the following must have a familiar ring to those who are on much
less intimate terms with Aristotle's Ethics than with their Bible :
" To conclude this article : never walk fast in the street, which is a
mark of vulgarity, ill befitting the character of a gentleman or a man
of fashion, though it may be tolerable in a tradesman ; " or, " In my
mind there is notliing so illiberal and so ill bred as audible laughter. It
is low buffoonery, or silly accidents, that always excite laughter ; and tliat
is what people of sense or breeding should show themselves above."
It was Chesterfield's experience, he tells his son, that virtue to keep
its lustre must be polished like gold. But the furbished virtues must
shower their blandishments on all, not merely on *' shining and dis-
tinguished figures, such as ministers, wils, and beauties." The com-
mon run of ugly women and middling men were to be courted with the
fiameassiduity, forthat was the price of popularity and general applause,
Mauvaise honte was productive only of bitter animosities. " I have
been in this case, and often wished an obscure acquaintance at the
de%il for meeting and taking notice of me, when I was in what I
thought and called fine company." But the results he found were
unpleasant. Music, to be sure, was a liberal art, but a man piping
himself at a concert was in degradation. A gentleman should pay
the fiddler, but never fiddle himself I His obser\'atlon on die osten-
tation of learning is very shrewd and discerning : " Wear your
learning like your watch, in a private pocket, and do not pull it out,
and strike it, merely to show thai >^u liave one." Polished and
shining manners are prelude and burden of the strain ; but nothing
overmuch, mannered^or moralled. " We may bliiue," says my lord,
" like the sun in the temperate 2oac, without scorcliing."

DANIEL ;0IIN$T02r.

ac^

THE RED KINGS DREAM,

■■ If he left off dROSD^* TveeOedee ntforc^ ** yxCi. be =c«^eR. Y» ic
od^ m sort afdngkihisdmH. If ibiilzacvaa ^a «ue joc'<£ £9 cc: ^c«
cndle." — 72^ tU Imkim^ Gta.

NIGH17S hodi— azid aE &e deep Uixsh roses psle,
Tlie Tallej steeped in dev, acd o'er the bul
(Cravn'd with dark fizs) a, shzoodin^ misty tuI —

One «atcfaii% o'er the ymr, Tfaeie all is sd3.
And seems bat to exist for those looe eyes

Nov fcffping T^3. Lov there sees the star
Which faci^iitly lit the aznre er'nizig skieSf

And some £um streak of grey, from East afar,
Tdb of %. moniiz^ when the world will be

Kot for <s>e watch alone, but l^bily gleam
For many ; and there dawns reali^ —

Or are we alwap i^iantoms in a cream ?

Whose dream ? My dream ? Soreiy the dream is mine

Here^ in the silence. Yet, at waking day.
Love ! I would rather that the dream was thine

Than I without thee walked Love's living way !
Thy dream ! Bat then at this calm hush, when night

Broods o'er still sleeping day, life's mysteries
Seem nearer, truer, than the deeds of light —

My soul and thine alike as part of these.
Our dream ? Then, waking, shall each cease to be ?

With dawn of day the rose is deeper hue ;
When day shall dawn will not my love for thee

Know all that sooice of truth whence comes the true ?

O Red King, dreaming ! what are we and ours
If thou dost wake ? And even what are we

Whilst thou dost slumber thro' our living hours 7
And what is life, and what reality ?

204 '^^^^ GeniUmafis Magazine*

All that we hnotv is change. The fact of seeing

Stamps it but passing shadow, which may last
One year or many ; but it's changeful being,

So late the future, soon must be the past.
Thou wak'st, we pass away — but passing where ?

Going out But what is outside ? Dies the flame :
And has earth passed with that one flick'ring flare?

Did the faint rushlight give the world a name?

Comes there a colour o'er the rose — a sound

Where hang the creepers in untrain'd array,
Festoon'd for fcathcr'd homes ; a rustling sound

Of wings, to flap the freshen'd air of day.
The chill stream bathes the feet of rising dawn,

The river bird knows where the rushes bend
With Morning's breath, the dew be-tasselt'd awn,

Her pink-tipped fingers raise and greeting send
From rosy lips o'er all the earlli. Dost still

Slumber adown the wood, strange, sleeping King ?
There is a golden glow o'er yonder hill,

And at thy feet hath sprung the fairy ring
From warm, moist earth, which all thy dreams have made

Enchanted ground. Then, if I, dream-form'd, rove
Only while thou art here in slumber laid,

Dream thou of Earth's one dream of Heaven — Ia/h !

I am but living in that dream ? I care

For that not one spent petal of the rose —
So where I am my love is also there !

Then let the Red King's eyes in slumber close.
Or if he wake and we are outside? Well —

We are outside together^ and dim space
Has no black darkness. In a dream, to dwell

With Love were worth full many firmer place !
The pines stand sentinel to guard this way,

The cup-moss here is at its loveliest.
Dream on t I'hc cold cares of prosaic day

May gain a glamour from this couch of rest.

The waters thro* the cold, dull afternoon
Flow on. The sunny ripple comes again.

The silver beams of Autumn's harvest moon
Will follow long dark nights. And what U gain

Tk$ Red Kin^^s Dream, 305

Is loss 80 soon — ^how do we even dare

To think that such is life— in troth and all?
The flitting shadows mock us everywhere,

There is no answer to the spirit call
For substance. O I Red King, I kiss thy brow,
Sleep on ! For thou hast dream'd sweet dreams for me,

And what was not sweet I forgive thee now —
*Tis such a fraction of eternity

Thy slumber takes. Yet would I pray thee, sleep.
Dream on ! For sometimes waking is a sorrow ;

While in this dream, I know, but shadows weep,
Bat cannot tell who weeps in that to-morrow !

E. U. RUTHERFORD.

3o6

Tke GentUmati s Magazine,

TABLE TALK.

A Holiday Suggestion.

TO those (including, as I hope, the majority of my readers) who do
not find the slaughter of grouse or any other form of destruc-
tion an indispensable accompaniment of a holiday, and who have not
mapped out schemes of Alpine climbing or seaside ablution, and yet
feel it incumbent on tl)em to quit London for awhile — a duty or
obligation which weighs lightly on me — let me commend the
revisiting of some group of our English cathedral churches. Of
course, I do not prohibit an exploration of the whole. Nowhere, to
my thinking, can repose be found more peaceful, or more enchanted,
than in a quiet cathedral close with the daws swarming around
the towers and clamouring without disturbing the calm. Mine
is a seal without knowledge. I am shamefully ignorant of archi-
lecture of all sorts, and especially of ecclesiastical architecture, yet
I know no form of man's work that appeals to me so directly and
so strongly. I do not think I could bear to Uve the rest of my life
in a place such as Wells, Lichfield, or Ely, as I would scarcely on
any conditions forswear the intellectual collision and unrest of
London. Yet I am not sure that to do so, to spend one's life drink-
ing in and absorbing, so to speak, every phase of beauty and delight
to be drawn from one Gothic building, such as Wells, would not be
as pleasurable and remunerative as retiring, as Byron suggests, to the
desert for a dwelling-place.

With one fail spirit for my minister.

For every cathedral church, and I know all that are within practical
rcacii in Western Europe, has a physiognomy as distinct as that of a
beloved woman. There may be rhapsody iu the comparison, but
there is no irreverence.

Engush Cathedral Churches.

LET the reader summon up his memories, for I will not assume
that there is one who cannot do so, of Durham, York, and
Lincohi, of reterborougli, Norwich, and Ely, of Cloacesler,
Worcester, and Hereford, of Canterbury, of Salisbury, of Winches-
ter, of Exeter, of Wells, and say, if he dares, wliich he likes beat I

Table Talk.

aoy

use no qualifying adjective concerning these edifices, since, in fact, I
[lack the courage so to do. The language of eulogy seems weak and
powerless to cbatacterise our superb fanes. It seems to me as if any
one of them might justify a life's devotion, and there are, I believe,
those who dwell beside them who yield them such. I am willing to
admit the claims of edifices such as are to be seen in Rouen,
Amiens, Rheims, Paris, Orleans, Bourges, and Chartres, some of
them, perhaps, more brilliant than anything that we can show. But
our English architects seem to have consciously or unconsciously
absorbed the influence of English surroundings, and our English
churches have a reposeful beauty which I find nowhere else. Let the
reader pardon mean outburst in which I do not often indulge. The
summer brings with tt "immortal longings," and I would like to
infect one here and there of my readers with the notion of breathing
the balmy atmosphere of the English close, and contemplating once
more the glories of an English cathedral

A Society for the Protection of the English Language.

A FRIEND of mine, a scholar of high position and editor of
a well-known blerary periodical, suggests the formation of
a society for the protection of the English language, and surely
something of the kind seems to be needed. In presence of the
assaults made upon it by those who should be its defenders, it
calls for protectors as loudly as do the children, animals, and birds
which we are always trying to defend. Possessors of one of the
noblest and richest tongues that man has devised or obtained, we
treat it with neglect equally incomprehensible and shameful. It
is painful to contrast Uie cultivation of style which prevails in
Fiance and extends to Spain, Italy, and Belgium, with the neglect,
almost amounting to contempt, exhibited in England. Ignorance
and rapidity of production are responsible for the slovenliness of
much of our Press work. It would be futile, however, to pretend
that the writers for the Press are the only offenders. Scarcely
one of our producers of history, science, or beUes lettres is there that
extends the slightest consideration or homage to our language.
Most of them, indeed, might almost be charged with mangling
purposely the bosom from which they draw their sustenance.

Respect Paid to Ehcush in Past Times.

IT was not always thus. In those Tudor times in which our
language took the shape, lovely and majestic, tt has long borne,
and stiU at times exhibits, men prized it as

Tbe richest Ireaiure that out wit kffoids.

208

The GenthmarCs Magazine.

In lines which should live for ever in men's hearts, Saraucl Daniel,
the poet, animated by a fine spirit of prophecy, asks —

Ot should we, carelesse, come beluode the rest

In powre of wordcs, that goc bcrore in worth*
Whereas our accent, cquall to the best,

Is able grtfttcr wonders to bring forlh :
When all that cucr holler spirits expresi

Cumea bellred by iJie patience of the North ?
And who, in time, knowes whither we maj send

The treasure of our tongue, to what stringe shores
This gaine of our t)est'gIory shall be sent,

T* enrich vnVnowing Nations with oor stores?
What worlds in th' yet xnfonned Occident

May come rcfm'd with Ih* accents that arc ours?
Or, who can tell for what great worke in hand
The grotnes of onr Stile is now ordain'd 7

I quote, not as I fear for the first timev though it is very long
since I used them, these words, the beauty and justice of which can-
not easily be ovcr-praiscd, using for the purpose, since the poem
whence ihey are taken, " Musophilus," is not even now easily acces-
sible in a modern form, the edition of 1602. The mission of our
tongue is not yet accomplished, and beside the " unformed Occi-
dent," with which men's minds in Daniel's time were filled, we are
spreading the "accents that are otirs " over "the gorgeous East,"
and orzT an austral world of which Daniel never dreamed. Who
shall limit the extent or the sway of our language ? ^Vho also dares
talk of the greatness of our (modern) style, or dream of foreign
nations being " refined " by such accents as wc now use ?

SVLVAKUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

September 1901.

A WILD IRISHMAN'S EXPLOIT.

Bv John K. Leys.

MR, JOSEPH BELLRINGERwastheeditorandsoleproprictoc
of the Weekly Mirror {and Cn'tu), a steady-going, old-
fiashiotiedi weekly journal. The Mirror had been established nuny
yean. It had had a considerable reputation in its day, but that day
was now long past; lately il had not been doing very well, for it had
been eclipsed by younger and more dashing rivals. It did not
pursue any special path, but meandered overall things in heaven and
earth in a sober and somewhat melancholy fashion, from week to
week and from year to year.

Mr. Bellringer resembled his journal. He too was steady, old-
fiishioned, stiff, somewhat feeble, and very discursive in his talk.
But at the office of the Mirror, the old man was an autocrat His
sub-editor, Thomas Larkyns, was little more than a proof-reader,
except for the fact that he wrote an article and a column of personal
paragraphs for the paper every week.

On one point only had Mr. Bellringer yielded to his subordinate's
suggestions, Mr. Larkyns had represented that it was absolutely
necessary to have a column or two of Personal paragraphs — " Personal
Tit-bits " — the sub-editor wished to call them. After much argument
the new feature in the paper was announced ; but Mr. Bellringer
with a frown drew his heavy goose-quill through the title beloved of
the sub-editor, and substituted " Personal Notes and Anecdotes."
In all other matters it was the same. Nothing of an objectionable
or even a questionable tendency c\'er appeared in the Mirror, One
might have thought that the sheet was issued by the Religious Tract
Sodcty^ so free was it from scandal, periifiagt^ or frivolous matter.
VOL. ccxci. Ko. 3049. (^

3IO

The Geniiemans Magazine.

And it may be imagined that it was often extremely difficult Tor Mr.
I^arkyns to find — as it was his duty to do every week— a supply of
*' personal " paragraphs which would suit the fastidious laste of Mr.
Bellringer, and would be, at the same time^ worth printing.

It was the height of the season ; London was very full ; and the
Mirror was pursuing the even tenor of its way, when Mr. Bellringer
was suddenly summoned to Brussels, to see an aged aunt, from
whom he had long expected a fat legacy. So, although it was
Thursday morning (an important day at the office of the Mirror)^
he made preparations to set out at once.

" You must write the leader yourself this week," he said to Mr.
Ijrkyns. " Be moderate ; above all things be judiciously moderate.
I think the new commercial treaty with Denmark will be as good a
subject as any. And do take care of your * Personal Notes.' Don't
be too personal, I would say. Give no one any ground for complaint.
I shall be back by Monday, I expect. — Good-day."

Friday rooming found Mr. Thomas Larkyns at the office^
laboriously constructing top-heavy sentences with no meaning in
particular, about a commercial treaty with Denmark, when the door
of his sanctum was pushed rudely open, and a brother of the quill,
a jovial Irishman named Dennis O'tTaherty, walked into the room.

"Get away, Dennis ; I'm busy," said Larkyns virtuously.

*' Where's the ouldcock?" responded O'Flahert)', nodding bis
head towards the editor's room.

" Gone to Brussels."

" The Divil he has ! TTiiti ye'll just come with me. Tommy, my
lad. Lightfoot and Marrablc and one or two more of us arc going
to make up a party. We lunch at the Cock Pheasant at halfpast two,
and go to see Tottie Howard in ' Sly-Bools ' in the evening. To-
morrow we all run down to Marrable's place at Richmond. His
better halfs away. We'll play whist or poker and drink whiskey, all
Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday, and come back to town on
Monday morning mightily refreshed. What say you, old man?"

" rd be delighted to go with you," said Larkyns ruefully; " but
I've got this confounded article to write, and a heap of proofs to
conect, and "

" Is that all ? Go on grinding out the meal, and I'll lake a look
at these little slips."

So saying Mr. O'FIaherty threw aside his hat, lit a cigar, tilted
bis chair back on its hind Icg<:, and picked up a proof-sheet.

Long before the article was finished, the proofs had been disposed
of ; and the Irishman left lus friend on the underf landing that he

A Wild Irishman s Exploit.

211

would turn up at tbe Cock Pbeasaai at half-past two, or as soon after
as be could.

Never had an article given Lark)7is sach trouble as this one did.
The sentences would not come right ; they would not hang together
even decently. A thousand times the young fellow cursed his
employer's folly in tying him down to a barren subject about which
it was next to impossible to say anything. But the most tiresome
tasks gel finished at last. The article was at length completed and
despatched to the printers, with instructions that the proofs were to
be forwarded to him at the Cock Pheasant.

It was past three before Tom Larkyns joined his friends ; and
lunch (which was practically their dinner) was nearly over. How-
ever, he ate and drank heartily, nuking up for lost time. After his
meal he drank the best part of a boUle of sherry ; and he had just
reached an extremely comfortable stage when a waiter brought in a
note for him.

He lore open the envelope, glanced at the scrawl within, and
uttered a cry of dismay.

" What's the matter? " asked one of the company.

" Matter enough ! " cried the luckless journalist, dropping his
head upon his hand. " I'm ruined \ I've forgotten my column of
* Personal Notes I "* It was true. The unmanageable article had
so filled his mind that be had entirely forgotten the " Notes."

" Wc started them just a month ago," said I.arkyns, " and I know
my chief will never forgive my going to press without them. Besides,
I haven't anything ready to fill the space. What shall 1 do ? I'm
in no condition to write now."

"Hold up your head, Tommy," said O'Flahcrty. "I'm the
soberest man present, /'//write your pars. Get me a dozen sheets
of note-paper and a pen," he added to the waiter.

Larkyns grasped his friend's hand with the effusive gratitude of a
who has taken as much wine as he can conveniently carry; and
O'Flaherty retired into a corner with the writing materials.

In an hour and a half the task was completed ; and O'Flaherty
carried his goodnature so far as to go down to the printers an hour
or two later, and see tbe paper put through the final stages before
going to press. He then joined the rest of the party at the theatre.

The Richmond programme was carried out ; and on Monday
forenoon I^j-kyns entered the office of the Mirror a little pale, and
a little shaky, but otherwise none the worse for his excursion.

" Mr. Bellrlnger has returned, sir," said one of the clerks to bim.

"Ohl"

313

The Gentlemans Magazine.

Tom pulled himself together, and entered the editor's room.
Mr. BcUringer wa*-' sitting at his writing-table, his elbows on the table,
and his head betvrecn his hands.

*'Good-inoming, sir," said Mr. Larkyns, with a feeble smile.

The editor looked up, and the 5ul>cditor's smile died away.
Mr. BcUringer was glaring at him like a wild beast ! Then suddenly,
with a half-articulate cry, the old man jumped up from his seat,
sprang on his sub-editor, grasped him by the coat collar with both
hands, and shook the unfortunate journalist as hard as be could.

" Mr. Bdlringer ! Sir ! ^Vhy do you—? What— do you mean ? "
gasped l^rkyns, as he swayed to and Uo. Mr. Bellringer had been a
powerful man In bis youth, and was still rather muscular.

" Mean I " shouted the owner of the Mirror ; *' I mean that you
have ruined me ! At least you have ruined my journal. Such infernal
impudence 1 never heard of ! But you shall suffer for it I Oh, but you
shall pay for it dearly \ I will encourage tliesc people to prosecute you
— criminal information, of course. You'U get on an average, I should
say, six months for each offence— say three years' imprisonment.
That will settle you, you villain ! That will teach you to sting the bosom
that warmed you, and bring an old man's grey hairs with sorrow "

" Look here, sir," said Larkyns 6rmly, " I'm verry sorry if any-
thing's gone wrong, but really I don't know what it is."

This cool impertinence (as it seemed) almost stupefied Mr,
Bellringer.

« Do you mean to tell me," he said, " that you do not knffw
what you have done ? Have you no conscience? No sense of decency?
No brains left you?"

"If it's anything in the Mtrrory I may tell you I haven't seen
a copy of the last issue. I've been in the country — for my health's
sake— and have just returned."

Mr. Bellringer's passion mastered him once more.

" Rtad that \ " he screamed» thrusting a copy of bis journal
under hi^ sub-editor's nose. " Read it, sir 1 Read it aloud ! *' And
Mr. I-arkyns read as follows : —

"The upper ten (if one may so speak) of the ecclesiastical world
is talking of nothing but the unfortunate scrape— to call it by no
harsher name— in which the Bishop of one of the northern dioceses
has unfortunately become entangled. It appears that about a month
ago his lordship took a railway journey from London to his own
cathedral city, travelling in a smoking carriage, for (as everybody
knows) his lordship is in private an inveterate lover of the n^ed.
AVlicn the prelate chose hia caxriage it had already one occu]>ant— a

A Wild IrUkm4u£s ExpkU. 2x3

hdy well known to the fteqoenten of the Fimdi^ Theatre for her
»kin as a damsntst. TlieBisbop'sfriendssay that there «u no otbcr
aeat m asoMildogcairiageavailabk; cioqitonefilled bjrsoDieaitisans
of his lordship^s flock in a state of semi-intoiifation ; but another
accoont states diat iri»en tbc guard with some drflknlty made room
datwhtie, his lordahqi^ ^andug at tfiechanning £Keof the yomg
hdj opposite^ pointedlj idbaed to move Be this as it majr, diere
can be littte doubt dsat the faisbop and the ^EuuwtrtxaTdkd togelfacr
from ten A.11. — ^well, sereol boms. It is iriiisperad that the joang
lady paited from his kvdship mider the finn impresnon dsat die was
engaged to be matiied to him ; and that the result voold ineritafaly
have been an action for bccadi of pitmuse^ had it not been for the
weU4nown &ct that his lordship is a manied man— as nrodi married,
in fiul, as was Bishop Proodie himselt At present, the shot hangs
fire ; bntas a man's being married is no legal bar to an action of
this nature^ we may expect some day soon an annuing trial; unless
the fair actress consents to compromise her ciaim. We can anthorita-
tively contradict the report that his lorddiq> is honocary prdate to
the Chnrdi and Stage Guild. On the contrary, his locdsfaq> has
always been considered a strict Evai^elical."

" Horrible ! Infamous ! Atrodons ! " cried Mr. BeUringer.

Mr. I^rkyns groaned, and the paper fell from his hands. He
remembered only too wen. The traitor OTIaberty had done this thing.

" Go on, sir ! Go on 1 " screamed Mr. Bdlringer.

Mr. Larkyns went on, and found that two columns were filled
with paragr^hs of this description. In many cases hints were given
as to the identity of die persons lampooned, faints which might apply
equally weD to any one of half a dozen pcop^ " A maiden lady of
uncertain age, and yet more uncertain temper," but related to one
of the oldest families in England, had clandestinely married her
youngest footman. The sale of Dunderton Castle, "which our
readers will find advertised in all the leading dailies," had become
necessary, owing to the frightful losses which his Grace had sustained
at baccarat And so on.

** Wdl, sir, what have you to say to all this ? " cried Mr, Belltinger,
in a voice that was hoarse with rage. " I have had visits from
several indignant gentlemen, each supposing himself to be the
brother of the lady who had married her footman. As for the story
about the Bishop, it*s simply blasphemous — shockii^ Then, the
Duke of Dunderton "

" But— but there isnt any Duke of Dunderton ! " ejacuhued Mr.
LarkynsL

214

The Gentleman s Magazine,

" It doesn't matter," said Mr. Bellringer severely, " the names
may be fictitious, but the persons are real^enough, or at any rale the
slanders are — these gross^ false, wicked calumnies are real. Can
you deny that^ sir? "

There was no answering arguments Uke this, and the unlucky
sub-editor began to explain that under the stress of work he had
left it to a friend on the press to write the paragraphs ; but the
proprietor of the Mirror would not listen to him.

" It doesn't matter, sir, whether it was by utter n^lcct of your
duties or by wilful malice that you allowed such abominable false-
hood.<; — or childish nonsense — to appear in my journal," said Nf r,
Bellringer, in a lofty yet angry tone. " Meantime the least you can
do is to sign this Retractation and Apolog)*." So saying the old man
placed before the delinquent the draft of an apology so humble in
its tone that Larkyns's cheeks flushed as he read it. Still, he reflected,
some explanation was due, and he was not in a position to stand
upon trifles. He seized a pen and signed the sheet.

" Now you can go, and I hope never to see you again," said
Mr. Bellringer with a grim smile, as he locked the Apology up in
his drawer.

">Vbat, sir? Am I dismissed?" cried poor Larkyns,

*' Dismissed ? Certainly. What else did you expect, pray ? "

The young man's heart seemed to leap into his mouth. He
turned on his heel without a word, and walked out into the street,
the pitiless London streets, which seem to the unfortunate colder
and harder than any other streets in the world.

All that day he spent in trying to find another situation— unsuccess-
fully. On Tuesday he fell in with O'Flaherty, who received Larkyns's
story with shouts of untrammelled laughter, till the melancholy end
was reached. The Irishman was sincerely sorry, which did not do
the unhappy man much good.

On Thursday I.Arkyns remembered that the Mirrcr owed him a
little money, and he thought he had Iwtter call and see the cashier.
He did so, and learned to his surprise that Mr. Bellringer had not
been at the office since Monday. A little further inquiry made him
aware that the unfortunate journalist, tormented by threats of actions
for damages and criminal prosecutions, and wincing under the
sarcasms of his S)*nipathising friends, had immured himself in his
house at Bayswater, abandoning himself to the gloomiest fore-
bodings. As for the Mirror^ Mr. Bellringer had apparently left it to
take care of itself. Except tlie abject Apology which Larkyna had
signed under the impression that it would be accepted as an atone-

A JTild /rzsJkmam's Ej^£mI. 213

ment far his Bnk, tfaezc VZ5 Doctxg 3x trpc kx t=e aex2 issae. b
looked fts if OTUmty^ ntdssed jett mnUpKove tbe dsxfa^ilov
of the poor old Mimr.

When L«ifcFi>s had ascntaoied in tfai^ be west to a taiartt«here
he knew he sfaould prafaaUrCnd OHHihalT and conSded 10 Uaa
tike &ct of die iiiMiihrrt decease of the J&nr. ■■ And in bt^
DenniSk nn'not 90R7* he added, "far dae lindiuiie oU as^ Bdl-
TiDgcr, has the Apofegj- he vTUss from me in trpe, readf far insertioi^
with my name in feoen half an indi kng at die fcoL I should
neier be ahle to hold np my head i^in if that thing vere
pobBsbed."

The Iridinian went on sipping his brandj and water for some
little time in silence : then suddenly he started up^ and absohi^j
focgettiz^ to empty his glass called oa^ ** Wait for me here ! * to his
friend, and homed from the room.

An hour — two hoars— passed, aod OTIaherty returned, evidently
in a state of great excitement

" I've done it. Tommy," said he.

"Done what?*

"IVe bought the Mirror V

" But — but yCMi've got no money to pay for it."

"It doesn't matter. Ill keep it going; that's the main thing. I
made the old man take bills ; and if I can't meet them out of the
profits di the paper I'm no worse off than I was before. Will you
have a half share with me ? "

"On these terms — that I take profits, and can't pay losses? —
certainly ! " said Larkyns, staring at his friend.

"I consider you're entitled to that," said the Irishman; "but
come along, my boy. You and I have to write a whole number of
the Mirror before this time to-morrow ; so there's no rest for you or
me this night"

When Mr. Bellringer opened his copy of the Mirror on Saturday
rooming expecting to find in it the Apology (a masterpiece, he
flattered himself, in that species of literature), he found instead the
following Editorial, which proceeded, it is needless to say, from the
iiadle pen of Mr. D. O'Flaherty :—

" To our great surprise and intense amusement, we find that the
column of * Personal Notes ' in our last issue, which we intended as
a piece of harmless fun, has been taken seriously by some worthy
pec^Ie. It may sound incredible, but such is the fact Enraged
fathers and furious brothers have called and threatened us with
sudden and unprovided death because we said an old lady had

Tk$ GentUniafi s Magasine^

r footman ! She can't liave had €tH those fathers and
From every diocese in the province of York old ladies
female) have undertaken a journey to London on purpose
us, and ask us to tell them in the strictest confidence if It
[ear bishop who travelled with the actress. Nay more, we
il letters from the wives of bishops' chaplains, offering to
2 our veracious anecdote by evidence of similar incidents
>f to themselves. Alas, for poor human nature 1 "
Flaherty followed this up with a series of paragraphs more
more amusing than the former ones, as well as a couple
to correspond. The old subscribers to the paper were
but the paper sold, and succeeded better than it had ever
le reign of Mr. Bellringer. O'Haheny and his friend
exceedingly \ and they are flourishing still.

"HE NOVELS OF PEREZ GALDOS.

B£FOR£ the beginning of the present year few persons outside
of Spain had ever heard of Benito PtSrcz Galdds. One of
his novels, " Dona Perfecta," had, it is true, been translated into
several European languages, but the translations had made little
stir even in literary circles. Suddenly, however, in the 5rst quarter
of 1 90 1 there appeared at Madrid a play called "Electra," which
obtained a success such as few dramas have ever liad in Spain, and
which has gained for P^rez GaldtSs a European reputation. Not,
indeed, on account of the literary merit of the piece, for if " Electra "
had been performed in Paris or London it would probably have
been pronounced mediocre and uninteresting. But it so chanced
that the first representation of the play coincided with the most
violent outburst of anti clericalism which Spain has known since
the days of the Liberal Minister, Mendizabal, in 1836. The public,
embittered against the friars by the privileges enjoyed in respect of
taxation by those semi-religious bodies, was raised to fury by the
revelations of the Ubao case — an action brought by the guardians
of a rich young lady to obtain her Release from a convent, in which
she had been incarcerated against their wishes but with her own
consent At this juncture— when the excitement had reached
a pitch that the particular convent in question was in danger of being
burned to the ground by the mob, and monks and nuns found it
wiser all over the country to keep out of the way— P^rez Gald*5s
produced his drama, a work full of allusions to clerical tyranny.
Never has author known better how to seize the psychological
moment " Electra " has proved to be a perfect example of Mr.
Kipling's theory that " it does not matter what you write, provided
you know when to write it" At once the Liberal Press throughout
Spain hailed the play as a new programme for the anti-clerical party.
The bishops, by forbidding the faithful to attend any representations
of the " immoral " piece, naturally gave it a tremendous advertisement,
2nd all Spain, from San Sebastidn to Algeciras, flocked to the theatre
whenever " Electra " was advertised So great was the alarm o( the

2l8

Th$ Gentleman's Mc^aztne,

clergy that in clerical Seville they laboured, with success, to secure
the boycott of the drama in the local Press. But elsewhere their
eHTorts failed. Even the rival charms of the bull-fight paled before the
delights of applauding the anti-clerical hits in the play, and of shout-
ing " iMrnran los fraila I " (" Death to the friars ! ") and " / l^wa la
Liberdad/" The sixtieth performance, which took place when the
present writer was in Madrid, was a perfect triumph for the author,
who further increased his popularity by handing over the proceeds
to the poor of the capital. No nation reads less than the Spaniards,
-who appear to consider a love of books as a sign of a \'acant mind.
Yet " Electra " has reached the — for Spain— unprecedented sale of
20,000 copies, and it is usually the only book that can be purchased
at the one bookseller's shop of a small Spanish town. Meanwhile
the name and fame of the dramatist spread abroad. He had hcconw
at a bound the most prominent man in Spain ; he had quite thrown
the Sagastas and the Silvelas of politics into the shade ; he had even
striven successfully with Cerrajillas, the noted bull-fighter, in the
race for notoriety, and reports of " Electra " threatened to crowd out
the daily bulletins of that wounded gladiator's health from the
columns of the Madrid papers. As public men in Spain usually
decline to lead public opinion, Vittz Gald(5s became in himself a
leader, and the most widely read Austrian paper published a long
article from his pen on " Spain of To-day," which was repro-
duced all over the Peninsula. From Portugal, where there is an
anti-clerical movement simitar to that in Spain, came eager applica-
tions from rival managers for the dramatic rights of the notorious
drama. An impetus was also given to the sale of the author's previous
works in Spain, and the volumes of his " Episodios Nacionales,"
bound in the red and yellow of the national colours, enlivened the
windows of the Puerta del Sol. By yet another stroke of luck the
publication of the last volume of that series of historical novelf^
** Bodas Rcales " (" Royal Marriages "), happened to coincide with
the very unpopular royal marriage of the Princess of Asturias, the
young King's sister and possible successor. P^re2 Oald6s's novel had
nothing to do with the Princess and her husband, but took its title
from those **Spanii>h marriages" which, in 1846, led to so mucli
unpleasantness between Oreat Britain and France. The name was,
however, quite enough for the enterprising publisher, and the reputa-
tion of the novelist as the interpreter of what Liberal Spain was
thinking received further confirmation. To-day it is not too much
to say that Perez (>ald(5s is the one Uving Spanish writer whose
name has any significance north of the Pyrenees, and tlw one author

Tfu Novels of Ptfnz Califs,

319

who wtdds infiuence soutb of that range of mountains at which, it
■vnts once sarcastically said, "Africa begins."

To those who desire to gain some acquaintance with the romantic
episodes which made up so much of Spanish life in the first half of
the last century, no better guide can be recommended than this

> popular novelist and dramatist. For a number of years Ptfrez (jaldds
concentrated all bis efforts on the production of a great prose epic
which should do for modern Spain what Zola's " Rougon-Macquart '*
series of novels did for modem France, and what the late Gustav
Krcytag in his " Ahiien '* did for Germany across the ages. The thirty
volumes of the " Eptsodios Nacionales"cover thcwhole field of Spanish
affairs from the battle of Trafalgar, which gives its name to the first
of the scries, down to the Royal Marriages, which furnish a title to
the last. During those forty-one years Spain was almost constantly
the theatre of grtat historic events which attracted the attention of
the whole world, and in which Englishmen played an important part
The Peninsular War, the Restoration of the Bourbons, the march
of the French through the country under the Due d'Angoulfimc, the
wretched reign of Fernando VII. with the "Apostolical" rising, the
intrigues round the sick-bed of the miserable despot, the proclamation
of Isabel II., the first Carlist War, and the subsequent disturbances
of the military chiefs— all these form the background to the pictures
of Spanish life which the novelist has drawn in this his longest and
most interesting work. All the leading men and women of the
period are presented to us as living personages of the narrative, with
all their virtues and defects [xirtrayed at times in almost Tacitean
colours. We have the Queen-Regent of those days, the lovely

j Neapolitan, Maria Cristina, of whom a Carlist said to the dejected
etender, " c\'crything would have been otherwise if your Majesty's
itigust sister-in-law had been born with a squint," ' and whose " beauty
the political support to wliich both Liberty and the Monarchy
d their principal successes." ' We are told how she captivated
all hearts wlien she entered Madrid as a blushing bride in the winter

L of 1829, and how poets exhausted their vocabulary of complimentary

Pcpilbets in their desire to do her honour. In another novel we liave
a description of her abdication and departure from Valencia in

tJ84o. Wu are shown the marked contrast between Don Carlos
nd his greatest general, the ill-fated Zuraalacarregui, '* the former
the living personification of absolutism, the latter the pcrsonifica-
tioD of the formidable national force which loved and defended it.** '

• iimJisJM, p. 165. * Ihid, pw 163.

220

Tiu Gentleman* s Magazine,

In one volume after another we see the self-styled Carlos V.,
naiTOw and obstinate, beloved by his friends, yet devoid of every
particle of statesmanship, keeping up a miserable and distracted
Court, now at Ofiate, now at some wretched mountain hamlet
where a dish of beans was regarded as a luxury for the royal
table, but always and everywhere the victim of monks and friars,
and solemnly proclaiming the Virgin as the Generalhimn of his
armies. No writer has studied Carlism more carefully than P^rez
Galdds, and, opposed to it as he is from conviction, he yet does
justice to the sterling qualities of the rank and fiJc on both sides.
He makes a Sicilian diplomatist say of the Pretender's Court at
Ofiate : " My friend, here everything you see is false, and in this
diminutive capital you will find no more truth than in the big one
at Madrid ; false is the piety of most of these courtiers ; hypocritical
is their belief in the divine right of this poorcomedy-king ; deceptive
is the enthusiasm of those who loaf about in the army and in the
public offices." Yet the same cynical observer is made to continue :
"The one element of truth is the ptoph in its ignorance and its
innocence ; that is why it is the donkey which bears all the burdens.
// does everything : it fights, it pays the costs of the campaign, it
dies, it rots away in misery, so lliat these phantoms may live and
glut their greed of place and pelf." * And in the same novel the
author expresses the same contrast in his own words : "The story
of the ' Apostolical * and Royalist campaigns and that of the mutual
extermination of Spaniards during the dynastic war down to the
Convention of Vergara cause grief and horror, because of the vast
scale on which lives were sacrificed, and the pettiness of the persons
in whose names the most flourishing part of the nation died or
allowed itself to be butchered." ' Yet, as one of the charaaers in a
later volume confesses, "Spain is an Invalid which can only live by
being bled " ; and, again, " TTje Spaniard is a born fighter, and when
he cannot have a natural war he invents one." *

The military leaders on either side come off better than the titular
heads of the contending factions. The two men whom Gald6s roost
toves to honour are Zumalacarregui the Carlist and Espartero the
champion of the "angelic" Isabel. Honesty and simplicity are
typified in the doughty guerilla chief who is sent by the intriguers of
the Carlist headquarters, against his own wishes, to besiege Bilbao,
then as now the great Liberal stronghold in ilie North. Few scenes
in this whole epic of civil wAt are more pathetic than that in which

' Da OUttti i la Gnmf*y p, l8$. * /^^ m^r-

' ^«n/<T it OtWt pfk. JS, 63.

The Novels of PArz Ga!d6s. 221

the wounded Carlist is tmken to die in his simple %-ilUgc home. " He

was," such is the author's epitaph upon htm and at the siune lime

upon his party, " the soul and the arm of the Absolute Monarchy,

and the Carlist cause died with him. Although its ghost has not

e^-cn }et been Isud to rcst^ Carlism was buried with the bones of

Zunuiacarregui beneath the fligs of the pamh church of Ccgama." *

On the other side, Espartero, hero of the bridge of Luchaju, R:lie\'cr

of Bilbao and Duke of Victory, who wound up the first Carlist War

by the pact of Vergara with the more moderate section of hia

opponents under Maroto, comes in for unstinted praise. He is held

up OS a colossal figure, such as Spain no longer produces, and his

ambition is forgiven because of his firmness of cliaracter. For

GaldiSs, Liberal though he be, is under no illusions. *' In our country

of chick-peas and military risings," he writes, "the successful soldier

is ihc only possible saviour," ' *' Ever)' Spaniard,'* says one of the

characters in"Los Aposidlicos,""when bedemandii Liberty, means bia

own, caring little about that of his neighbour. Des{>otism beati in

every Spanish heart and runs in all Spanish veins. 1 1 is our second

nature, it is the leprous inheritance of past centuries, and will only lie

cured by the bpse of centuries to come."' Hence the author's

manifest liking for such another strong man as the Carlist leader,

Cabrera, nicknamed *' the leopard," whose bloody reprisals for the

savage murder of his mother by the other side are described in

" La Campafta del Maestrazgo." Yet the folly and futility of aU iheae

operations and all this bloodshed are never concealed. " Why arc

we fighting?" asks one of the people in this last-named novel. '*If

I examine the question thoroughly, I find no reason for this butchery.

Liberty, forsooth ! Religion ! The rights of the Queen, or those of

Don Carlos 1 When I set to work to philosophise on this war, X

can*t help bursting out laughing ; and, laughing and thinking, 1 end

l^ convincing myself that we are all mad. Do you think that

Cabrera cares one jot for the rights of his male Majesty ? or that

tboae on the other side care one jot for the rights of her female

Blajesty? I believe that they arc both striving for domination and

offke, and for nothing more." • And elsewhere, in " Lo« ApotuUkot,"

GaId(Ss reads his countr>-men a severe lesson on the results of this

insensate struggle between rival parties in the field. " The outline

of our country," be writes, ** does not reicmbte a geognphical mapv

but the strategic plan of an endless battle. Oor people ia not a

people, but an anoy. Our Government doef not govern, U dofondi

222

The Gentleman's Magazine.

itself. Our parties are not parties as long as tbey have no generals.
Our mountains are trenches, and that is why they have been wii^dy
stripped of trees. Our plains are left uncultivated, in order that
artillery may career over them. Our commerce exhibits a traditional
nervousness, caused by the fixed idea that to tnorrffW there vrill be a
row. . . . Peace is here merely a preparation for the next struggle, a
brief breathing-space, in which men dress their wounds and clean
their weapons in readiness to begin again." * No words could better
express the modern history of Spain,

While he reserves his warmest admiration for the generals, Galdds
is not unkind to the politicians pure and simple — if purity and sim-
plicity can be predicated of any politicians. For Mcndizdbal, the
famous Liberal Minister, who honestly tried to rid Spain of the
incubus which slill impedes her progress— the friars and the nuns —
he has a profound liking. The strange career of this able man is of
special interest at the prt-scnl moment, when Spain is confronted by
exactly the same problem which he tried in vain to solve in 1836.
Galdds devotes a whole novel to the statesman whom the Spaniards
summoned in their despair from his counting-house in London to
save the State, and who relied more on Villicrs, the British Ambas-
sador, than on his own followers. He shows us at once the strength
and the weakness of the popular idol of that day — his unSpanisht
English style of speaking ; his great knowledge of affairs and his small
knowledge of the classics; his vast plans of reform and his petty vanities
of dress; his gigantic stature, which earned him the nickname of
"Don John-and-a-half " ; and his small feet, of which he was
extremely proud. His rapid rise and still more rapid fall arc depicted,
and the scene in which the fallen Minister quits his post is one of
singular dignity. Palace intrigue, and the lack of that" glorious Par-
liamentary oratory which is in Spain and in the Spanish genius a sort
of combative poetry," caused his failure.' Besides, the Spaniards
love " to throw stones at the idol which they bavt- set up." * Galdds
evidently believes that what Spain wants is a new Mendi^ibal who
would secularise the monasteries and abolish the friars. Yet he
is not, as he has been described by his enemies, an advocate of vio-
lence, even towards the religious orders. Some time ago a rabid
Spanish paper published a cartoon reminding the Madrid populace
how its forbears had set fire to the convents and massacred ihdr
inmates on the fatal i6th of July, 1S34. But Gald(5s, in his graphic
account of that event, is all on the side of humanity and the friars.

' Xm JjutiliMtt p. 63. * /fu/, p. 57.

■ Menttt di Oat^ p. 4^

The Ncfveh of P/res GaldSs,

225

He tells us how the alann of Asiatic cholera, then an unknowtk
disease, fell upon the ignorant mob ; how some playful children were
seen throwing a few handfuls of soil into the water-butts, and how
this simple act was skilfully combined by a reckless anti<lerical
^tator with the equally inoffensive action of a friar who had im-
fted a load of sacred eanh from a shrine at Manresa, and was so

^distorted as to appear a delilx:ratc attempt on the part of the religious
orders to poison the people. At once the logic of the agitator went
home to the excited brains of the distracted and tcrri6ed madrikHos^
and the guiltless friars were butchered in cold blood, dying like heroes
on their knees before the altars.' Only a few weeks ago Galdds
most emphatically protested that he was no foe to religion and the
Church, and he is too humane a man to treat even those whom he
considers to be the worst foes of his country with unfairness.

The " Episodios Nacionalcs " might be read with interest for the
historical scenes alone, such as the famous intrigue round the sick-

[bcd of Fernando VII., when Doiia Carlota, the Queen-Regent's
ster, gave the historic box on the cars to the base and grovelling
Minister, Calomarde, who meekly replied, "White hands offend
not" ; or such as the comical interview between Maria Cristina and
the revolutionary sergeants at La Granja ; or the refusal of the
Basque soldiers to fight any more for Don Carlos after six long years

"of combat.' Very touching, too, are the betrayal and execution of
the chivalrous Montcs de Oca, the paladin of Maria Cristina, who
her banner against Espartcro's Regency, and who, though a

^dreamer, is one of the purest figures in all this gallery of portraits,
" the living personification of the poetry of politics." ' But in each
novel there is a more or less complete scene of private life, as
aflected by the public events of the time. In this respect, how-
ever, the '* Episodios Nacionales " suffer from a defect common
to all long series of stories, and indeed inevitable in that class
of composition. The same characters reappear in successive
volumes, often without the slightest explanation, and thus the
reader, who has neither time nor patience to wade through all
the previous books of the series, finds himself suddenly plunged
into the middle of things with no clue to guide him. Vet the
characters are all types, and intended to be regarded as such. There
is the type of the young and ardent *' Royalist volunteer," who quits,
his quiet work as sacristan of a convent at Solsona for the excite-
ments of warfare, of which, like Don Quixote, he has read much in

' Un fatiioia mit y aignnci fraiUt mtnei. ' V$rgara,

* M<mt4s dt Oe^ p. S47.

Tki GentUntans Magazine,

books, but which he soon finds to be not all heroism. There is ihe
nun with whom he has fallen violently in love, but who calmly sends
him to the scaffold in place of a Liberal agent who possesses her
affections, and who has been captured and condemned to death by
the •' Apostolical " party.* There is the military priest, who goes in
quest of buried cannon for the Carlists, shares their miserable head-
quarters, consoling himself with the reflection that "there is no
mattress like Faith," * and is then captured and converted by the
Cristinos, being now confident that one side is no better and no
worse than the other. There is the young man of doubtful parent-
age but enormous inBuence who chases the lovely ward of a
diamond merchant all over Spain, and goes on missions to the
Carlists at one moment and escorts helpless damsels through the
hostile lines at another. There is the cleric whose one idea is bull-
fighting, who discusses politics in the jargon of the bull ring, and
thinks it quite becoming to one of his sacred profession to go to a
corrida de toros^ yet refuses tickets for the performance of a hannless
play. And there is the ruined old aristocrat of proud Aragdn,
whose life is one long struggle to wring money out of his careful and
penurious grandson in order that he may continue to live as an
extravagant grandee, going about the country with his reminiscences
of Napoleon and his rather risky anecdotes of Parisian society as he
had known it before that great man had revolutionised everything.
Side by side with this representative of the old school we have
portraits of typical members of the middle class, " that formidable
class which to-day is the universal power which does and undoes
everything, which is nowada}*s omnipotent in politics and the
magistracy, in administration, in science, and in the army, .and which
first saw the light at Cidiz amidst the roar of French bombs and the
perorations of a hybrid Congress."' It is this middle class which,
as the author show;;, has elbowed its way between frtars and nobles
and " created a new Spain." But Gald(5s more than once expresses
the opinion that the best hopes for the future of his country are to
be found, not so much in any one class or in any particular set of
institutions as in the national character, that "tenacity, lliat
chivalrous courage, which make up the whole history of a race,
which, e^'en when it is falling to the ground, thinks how it is to raise
itself again," that "tenacious Celtiberian constancy" which has
enabled the Spaniards to survive so many disasters.*

One of the most interesting features for British readers of these

■ Zmmiacarr^^uiy p. 196^ ■ ZMmalae«rrt^i, |t]x 150, S4-$5*

>6tf Novels of Ptfrez Galdds.

novels is the kindly feeling which they display for our national
character and customs. We are apt to 6nd pictures of ourselves
the reverse of flattering in most foreign novels at the present day ;
but in the pages of Galdos it is not so. The British envoys who
come to prevent the brutal system of shooting all prisoners during
the first Carlist War, are regarded as the benefactors of Spain and
of humanity ; an old Spaniard is represented as considering it one
of his proudest distinctions to have rendered a service to the great
Betittgton, while another Englishman, Lord John Hay, is favourably
known to the populace as Lorch^n. In the thirties, of which period
Galdt^s has given us such a minute and careful picture, English,
and not French, fashions were the rage in Madrid, and Mendizabal's
English clothes were the envy and admiration of all who beheld
them. It was to London that the Spaniards of that time looked for
political no less than sartorial advice, and even the Carlists were
constrained to imitate their opponents and import a financial
Minister from the City. When an enthusiastic mechanician, whom
his friends regard as crazy because he foretells the construction of
screw-steamers and ironclads, dreams of a great commercial future
for Bilbao, it is to England that he looks for llie capital and enterprise
necessary to accomplish his ideal.' And it is the British House of
Commons which the Spanish Uberal statesmen of that generation
extolled as the highest incarnation of political wisdom ! Among
his own countrymen, the author reserved the highest encomium for
the people of Aragdn and Navarre, whose tenacity of purpose he is
never tired of extolling. When an old rake is asked how he had
the audacity to make love to the Empress Josephine, he answers by
the simple and sufficient reply : '* I come from Navarre." On the
other hand, the butt of the company is usually an Andalusian, with
his soft pronunciation and his clipped and shortened words. Tor the
Basques, in spite of their devotion to Don Carlos, the novelist has
a regard no less strong than that which Loti has shown in his
famous story of Basque life, "Ramuntcho." That strange people
with its tmcouth tongue naturally pla}'s a'great part in his narrative,
and if, for the bene6t of his readers, he has translated the phrases
of that primitive language, which is said to have puzzled even the
devil, he has left all the local colour of the Basque Provinces in
hb picture.

Galdds is intensely patriotic; and while his patriotism is for
Spain as a whole, without distinction of races or languages, he has
done something in the course of his rutional epic to stimulate the

vot. ccxci. NO. 2049. K

226

The Geniienian's Magazine.

pride of almost every city in the Peninsula. The social life and
politics of the capital &re dearly reflected in his stories ; the plays
aud the scandals ; the new fashions and the new jokes that interested
and amused Madrid under Ferdinand VII. and his "angelic"
daughter arc faithfully recalled. The gardens of I^ Cranja, the
lugged passes of the Pyrenees, the small northern towns among the
mountains, the great brown plains of Castile, and the invincible
fortress of Bilbao pass in succession before our view. He does not
idealise, but presents things and places as they were, and we miss at
times the quaint picturcsqueness with which Borrow, writing of the
same period, invests even much that was commonplace in the Spain
of that day. Nor is Galdos tempted to take higher flights into the
regions of philosophy and metaphysics ; he presents us with no
complicated problems of science or religion ; he contents himself
with the more useful function of interpreting the past life of the
Spanish jKople for the beneGt of the new generation. Yet in the
third series of his " Episodios " he is beset by the danger, as he
himself points out, tliat he may inadvertently give offence to some
who arc old enough to have witnessed the events nanalcd. It was
this fear which made him decide at first to close the natiotial epic
with the end of the second series, and it was only after a long
interval that he altered his intention and added a third series of ten
more volumes to those already published. Judged by Spanish
standards this sequel seems to have attained success, for as many
as 10,000 copies have been issued of several <A these later stories.
Gald(5s humorously complains that his countrymen always borrow
any book that they desire to read ; but his work has recently been
laid before them in the cheapest and most popular of all forms —
that of iX^^ feuiUetoH at the bottom of the page of a halfpenny news-
paper, the Republican Pais.

Unlike so many modern novelists, the leading Spanish
writer is singularly free from all that is morbid and un-
wholesome. The youngest of " young persons " might read him
without being shocked. In his descriptions of private life be
looks at the bright side of things, and, possessed of a keen sense
of humour, is frankly and genially optimistic. But when he posses
on to consider the future of his country he becomes a pessimist, and
in this respect he may be compared with most Italian writers of the
present day. At the end of the second series of the " Episodios
Nacionales" there is a dialogue on the prospects of Spain between a
sanguine old gentleman and a disillusioned Liberal. The latier's
opinion we take to be that of the author, from tlie great stress which

Tiu Novels of Pdrez Galdds.

U laid upon iL "Salvador," he writes, " had but Hitle confidence in
the union between liberty and the Church, of which his companion
dreamed. He bid bare bis inmost tliouglus, and said that in all his
lifetime he expected to see nothing but blunders and errors, barren
struggles, essays and attempts, leaps backwards and forwards, corrup-
tion of the new system which would increase the partisans of the
old, noble ideas degraded by treachery and progress almost always
conquered in its conflict with ignorance. ' Better days,' he cried,
as he pointed with his stick to the horizon, ' are still so far off that
assuredly neither ycu nor I will lire to see them. Reform is slow,
because the disease is serious and dccp-scated and can only be
cured by individual efToit. ^ty ideal is far ahead. But it will come,
and even if we are not allowed to see it realised we may console
ourselves by penetrating, in thought at least, the dark future and
contemplating the beautiful innovations of the Spain of our grand-
children. Meanwhile I cannot share your enthusiasm, because I
do not believe in the present. I seem to be a spectator of a bad
comedy. I neither applaud nor hiss. I am silent and perhaps
asleep in my stall. I shall dream of that distant future of our
country, of that time, my dear friend, when the majority of Spaniards
will laugh at your angelic innocence of politics.' " * These lines were
written in 1879, but the events of the last twenty-two years do not
appear to have greatly modified the author's views. In his manifesto
on the state of Spain, published last April,^ he despairs of the future
unless the education of the young can be taken out of the hands of
the Jesuits and the Government of the country taken out of the
hands of the professional politicians. 1 -ike Gambctta he points to
clericalism as " the enemy," while he considers the Spanish system of
(tmqvismOy or the supremacy of a few party leaders, or '* wirepullers,"
as wc should say, as the curse of parliamentary institutions.
Certainly, unlike his hero, Salvador, whom we have just quoted, he
b not content to be merely a ".spectator." He has rendered by his
writings yeoman's service to wliat he considers to be die true interest
of his country, and as he is not yet an old man he should have
plenty of useful work still left in him. Like Salvador, too, he has no
family ties, and can accordingly devote himself entirely to his task.
Unfortunately for his fame abroad, those who write in Spanish must
be, for the most part, content to find their audience either in Spain
or in South America. Happy is the novelist whose lot it is to be

• U»fa£thsa mSs y algutwi /railtt menfi, pp- 3»8-^
» ffet-arJa dt Madridt April 9, 190I,

a J

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^1 1

The Gentieman^s Magazine,

France or Great Britain, And who thtis escapes those
who are proverbially traditori !

is the epic which Gald6s has written for the benefit of his
in. He treats of a time when, as he saySf " poor modern
1 was vanishing, rubbed out like paint that had been badly
d leaving behind it feudal quarrels, mystic 2eal and super-
irrible cruelties and eminent virtues, heroism and poetry,
mtton of angels and devils, who walked about the world,
[ and at liberty."' The theme is a good one, but the
" execution is not always excellent. Galdds wrote these
s of thirty novels at headlong speed ; some volumes were
iff in some six weeks at Santander, where the novelist

time when, he is not in Madrid* Hence they lack finish,
reader who has fotlowed the adventures of a leading
or some twenty chapters is astonished to find the person-
am he is interested married or killed off in a single page,

in a few lines, at the end- A foreigner cannot pretend to
of a Spanish writer's style ; but Spaniards accuse C^]d(5s ol
aisms in his prose. He certainly writes clearly, and shows
li knowledge of human nature. AVhether his work will
ns [0 be seen ; perhaps he has been too prolilic a writer

THE EDUCATION OF THE EARLY
NONCONFORMISTS.

EDMUND CALAMY wrote "A Historical Account of ray Own
Life," 1671-1731, which was first published in 1829, under the
editorship of John Towill Rult; and from this wc can learn direct
as to his schools and masters.

Calaniy came from a representative Puritan family. His father
was one of the ejected ministers of 1662. His f.xiher's father— they
all are called Edmund for Christian name — was one of the authors of
" Smeclyninuus." His father's father's father is said to have been an
exiled Huguenot from the coast of Normandy. They were each of
them learned men, given to the Puritanic traditions. But in i66j,
E^dmund Calamy, father of the writer of the autobiosraphy, was driven
from his church, though he had voluntarily given of his means to the
King's Exchequer in 1661. After e\*iction from his living, Calamy
continued to preach privately in his own house. But, by the
Clarendon Code in operation, this was illegal, and warrants were
issued against him. "And though," as we arc told in the Non-
conformists' Memorial, " he usually met his people every Lord's Day,
and sometimes twice in a day, and even several times in a week, so
favourable was Providence to him that he was never once disturbed
in the time of divine worship."

Before proceeding to an account of Edmund Calamy's education,
it is fitting to note the manner of father whom he had, Here is the
old-time description of him : " He was a man of peace and of a very
candid spirit, who could not be charged, by any that knew him, with
being a Nonconformist either out of humour or for gain. He
abhorred a close and narrow spirit, which affects or confines religion
to a party, and was much rather for a comprehension than for a
perpetual separation. He was ready to do good to all as he had
opportunity, though such a lover of retirement, that he was for
passing through the world with as little observation as possible; and
therefore, he was not upon any occasion to be persuaded to appear
i« print," Or, to quote the words of the son's autobiography : —

a30

The Gentlemans Magazine*

" I was from my infancy carefully instructed in the common
Christian principles of truth and duty, so in matters of diiTcTence
among professing Christians I had moderation instilled into tne from
my very cradle. Never did I hear my father inveigh against those
that officiated in the public churches, nor did he attempt to create
in me any prejudices against them or their way ; but he took all
occasions that offered to declare against heat and rancour on all
sides, and for loving all such as were truly pious and bore the image
of God upon them, wlialsocvcr their particular sentiments might be."

The latitudinarianism of men like Jeremy Taylor and Chilling-
worth was repeated in the Puritan Nonconformists like Edmujid
Calamy. To show this side of Nonconformity, it would only be
necessary to trace the history of its cultured men ; and an investigation
of the annals of the dissenting academies of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries would show that the claim of the exercise of the
judgment and conscience by the individual was one made ivith a
tender consciousness of the right of all others to exercise the same
privilege, to whatever conclusions they might thus be led. No doubt
the sufferings which were undergone by Nonconformists embittered
many against their persecutors ; still, the Nonconformist ministry has
never lacked witness, even in the midst of suffering, to the right of
their persecutors to hold their own convictions as long as they were
held sincerely. And so one generation passed on to another the gentle
word, tnoderation or toleration, and it is to this Puritanic tradition, in
a very high degree, that we must trace historically the basis of liberal
Christianity, which is prepared to face all investigation so as to find
llic truth, and to put aside prejudices of partisanship and of creed.
The elder Calamy, as described by the son, was not an exceptional
Nonconformist; he is typical of the more cultured, as they passed on
the light of their free souls from generation to generation. The
history of the education of these men, persecuted and despised as
ihoy were by scornful and self-satisfied contemporaries, would be
the flnest record of education, outside of the ancient Universities of
Cambridge and Oxford, to be found in England. It is not improbable
that in the eighteenth century their academies afforded an education
cyan superior to the contemporary Universities — sujwrior, if not in
book-learning, at any rate in the culture of the finer virtues of life.

Whilst Edmund Calamy is typical of the emphatic appreciation
of the best culture of the times by the Puritanic Nonconformists, he
has admirably supplied in his autobiography the means of tracing
his course of education. He changes his schools frci^ucntly, but
ihcre seems to be a method in his madness. Either his own family

Tke Edu^atton of the Early Nonconformists, 231

to remore out of the way ol those who arc likely to Interfcr-
with or persecute them, or those who are keeping school find they
are within reach of the law for endeavouring to teach school without
confonntDg to the Church, and taking out a licence for teaching
from the Bishop of the diocese in which they were living.

In his early years Calamy was taught at home by his mother. He
was very delicate, and his mother, who was naturally anxious about
him, look great pains over lura as to his reading and to his know-
ledge of the Catechism. '* And when I had learned it she carried ms
in her hands and delivered me to the care of good old Mr. Thomas
l>yo, to be publicly catechised by him on Saturday afternoons, at
Dyers' Hall, having been herself catechised by him in her younger
years, which she seemed to mention with abundance of pleasure.
That old gentleman was remarkable for his particular talent in
dealing with children upon the first principles of religion ; and
some were observed," adds Calamy, with modesty of statement, '* lo
retain the good impressions then made upon them all their days
after."

It is not easy at the present time to estimate the importance and
infiuenceofthecatecheticalinstructionofthepast From John Brinsley,
in 161 a, in his " Ludus Uterarius," and from Charles Hoole's "New
Discovery of the Old Art of Teaching School," in 1660, we learn that
religious instruction by means of catechisms ^ was part of the regular
school course, though in boarding-schools it formed a constituent
part of the Sunday occupation. Adam Martindale, in his "Autobio-
graphy "(Chetharo Society's Publications, vol. iv. p. 12a), says : "Within
the compass of this septennium, in the year 1656, the ministers . . .
agreed upon some propositions about the work of personal instruc-
tion. Multitudes of little catechisms we caused lo be printed,
designing one for every family in our parishes; and to all or most
ihey were accordingly sent." It is a mistake to suppose that tlie
Assembly's Catechism, though the most famous, was the only
catechism In use. There were many. In a catalogue, of 1658,
of books "vendible in England," I notice over twenty, besides
inwjmerable expositions of the Lord's Prayer, different portions of
Scripture, and of the Creed. Amongst these teachers Mr. Thomas
Lye held, as Calamy affirms, an honoured place. He had written
an explanation of the Shorter Catechism, under the title "The
Assemblies Shorter Catechism, drawn out into distinct propositions,

* Charles Hoole aiys the oiastcr is not to " wiU it in ■ (nlinus, iinneihocluei)
nurse, concerning ihlngs anncccsatj to be tmkeo notice of, and unmeant for
ijren to be puzxlcd nith."

232

The Genileman^s Magazine,

and proved by plain and pertinent Texts of Scripture at large.

With short Rules of Direction for Masters of Famtiies^ how to use this
Book to the best advaritage." This was printed in 1674. It is in the
directions to masters of families we see that Thomas Lye was alive
to the importance uf teaching— and it is to the same spirit was due
the well-known work of that famous Nonconformist, Daniel Defoe,

•The Family Instructor." Hereare Thomas Lye's plain directions : —

1. Thai it should be gone throu^jh in a family once a month.
It is therefore divided into thirty pans.

2. It is to be distinctly read over by ports at a time, till the
portion for the day is fmtshed.

3. "When you first begin to examine your family, let thcra
answer only within book ; and Jafter you have once or twice gone
over the whole Catechism witliin book, and you perceive the under-
standings to be somewhat enlightened, then, and not till then, let
them be required to answer without book"

4. Keep close and constant to the questions of the text.

We thus see the method of teaching adopted by Mr. Lye. In
1673 he published his vicwsat more length, in " A Plain and Familiar
Method of Instructing the Younger Sort. According to the Lesser
Catechism of the late Reverend Assembly of Divines, specially
intended for Governours of Families." He there lays down that
there arc seven rules of catechising : —

First. That the question be barely propounded, and the answer
returned.

Second. That truth must be separated from falsehood by trying
the child's understanding with further simple questions. "To repeat
words," he says, "and not to understand the truths contained m
Ihera, is but to act the parrot, and profits very little."

Third. The child must be tested as to his ability to express his
knowledge of the meaning of every hard and diflSculi word or
phrase.

Founh. Draw the whole answerinto several doctrinal propositions
if it contains more than one. Bid the child prove each of them by
Scripture, since " the Holy Scriptures arc the only foundation and
touchstone or proof of infallible and saving truth."

Fifth. " Take the several Scriptures annexed to the answer, and in
order propose them distinctly to the child. Ask him what he
obsen'es from them, and from wlut part of the text especially he
draws his observation."

Sixth. Propose such usual objections from Scripture or reason as
seem to contradict the truths asserted.

The Education of (he Early Noiumforwuts. z^

Seventh. Particularly improve and apply the several truths which
have been opened and proved by Scripture.

All these directions arc copiously and conclusively illustrated by
Mr. Lye, and, given his premiss that the Scriptures are the "only
foundation of infallible truth," and that they can be dissected into
texts of equally iiifallible worth, whether isolated or in their context,
Lye's method is excellent, and is undoubtedly keenly logical Indeed,
be was in sober earnest over this matter of education. He published
"A New SpeUing Book." The book is fully described by iu further
title, "Or Reading and Spelling English made Easier. Wherein all
the words of our English Bible are set down in an alphabetical order,
and divided into their distinct syllables. Together with the grounds
of the English tongue laid in verse, wherein are couch'd many
moral precepts. By the help whereof, with God's blessing, little
children, and others of ordinary caducities, may, in few months^
be enabled exactly to read and spdl the whole Bible." Thomas Lye
signs himself'*Fhibnglu5," and the British Museum copy is the second
edition, published in 1677. At the end of Lye's 1674 edition of
"The Assemblies Shorter Catechism" is an advertisement of "The
Child's Delight, together with an English Gramar."

It is quite clear that Thooias Lye was logically driven into
paying attention to the teaching of children, since religious truth
required a knowledge of the Scriptures, and these again could only
be consulted through a knowledge of reading and spelling. His
spell ing4>ook, therefore, contains the words used in the English
Bible, But the teaching to read (for the sake of Bible-reading)
becomes eventually an end in itself, and Lye becomes enthusiastic
in drawing others to the work of leaching. The advice given to
amateur teachers of spelling is excellent, but it is too long to quote.
Lye triumphantly asserts : " I have presented thee with something
that thou thyself wilt say is new. Probably thou hast heard of an
Iliad in a nutshell, or seen the ten commandments cut on a small
petuiy. But didst ever yet behold the whole Bible, every word
therein distinctly set before thine eyes, in a few pages?"

Edmund Calamy learned to read from Mr. Lye. He says of
himself : " I was betimes inclined to learning, a lover of my book,
and eagerly bent on being a scholar." He left Mr. Lye, we arc
not told why, and learned " the accidence and grammar " from
Mr. Nelson, curate of Aldermanbur^-, " who kept school in the \'cstry
of the church of St Alphagc." On leaving Mr. Nelson, Calamy was
sent " for the bene6t of the air " to Mr. Yewel's at Epsom, in Surrey.
Mr. Nelson had been too indulgent; Mr. Yewel was too strict He

234

The GetUUman's Magazine,

was not a great scholar, but very pious, spending much of his own
and of his pupils' time in prayer. Calamy thus describes this
school :—

" This good man had a considerable number of boys under his
care; but they fared so well, and the rates he had witli them were
so low^ and he was at the same time at so great an expense to keep
up a meeting on the Lord's Day in his school-house, to which
ministers came down every week from London, that he got very little
for all his pains, and he was often in trouble. And it was observed
that he proved at last but unhappy in some of his own children, who
discredited thdr strict religious education. My being there increased
and confirmed my health, though it did not much advance me in
learning."

Calamy next went to scliool with a man who had been a pupil
under the famous Dr. Busby, of Westminster School — Mr. Tatnal—
who kept school in Winchester Street, near Pinner's Hall. Mr.
Tatnal, we leara from the Nonconformists' Memorial, bad had
experience in teaching at the free school at Cox-cntry, and is said to
have taken "great and successful pains in instructing youth." He
is also said to have had great skill in vocal and instrumental musiCj
which rendered him "acceptable to many of the gentry in and about
the city." Calamy says that whilst at the school he sometimes said
by heart a satire in Juvenal in a morning.

In 1682— that is, when CaUimy was eleven years of age — he went
to Mr. Doolittle's school, apparently as a boarder. Mr. Doolittlewas
a native of Kidderminster, and had been "converted" by Richard
Baxter. He studied at Canibrii^e, and entered the Church. But in
1662, on the passing of the Act of Uniformity, "upon the whole" he
thought it his "duty to be a Non -conformist." He first started a
boarding-school at Moorficlds, then a larger one in Bunhill Fields,
and during the plague he removed to Woodford Bridge, near Chigwell,
in Essex, in 1665. His next place of school was at Wimbledon, and
then at Islington. It was whilst he was at Islington that Edmund
Calamy became his pupil. Calamy says that Doolittle had a "con-
siderable academy " in his house. He names some, who became well-
known mini.sters of religion, who were his contemporaries at Mr.
Doolittle's, studying philosophy and divinity. Calamy says it was of
advantage to him and to Ebencwr Chandler, another boy, "to
have from day to day free liberty of conversing with those who, in
age and knowledge, were so much our superiors." Mr. Dooh'itlc
was again obliged " by disturbance " to remove, this time to Battersea,
whitlier Calamy did not follow him.

Bdmcmtian of tkt Earfy Nofum^formisls, 235

Calamy next vas pUced at the MerchuU Tajrloc^ Sdioo2, under
Mr. HATtcUfl:

5£r. Uaitcliff placed Cakmy in the fifth fonn, and sooo raised
him to the sixth. As an ilhtttntion of the disability of Nor-
looolbrmists of the time to their school caieer, the instance of Joseph
iKentiith is worth qooting from Calamy : *' He was captain of the
, andt in compKance with hi» £kther, stood ai this time as one
^desrous of going to the University, for which he was generally
redoned as fit as anvone in the school AH in the u|^r forms were
then examined by Bii^hop Mew, of \\'inchester, the President of
Sl John's, Dr. Kidder, and other divines, who gave their presence
, tipon the occasion. The upper scholars were examined with a
Ipecnliar strictness, and none more criiically than this Mr. Kentish,
rho gave great satis^ction. But the examines being informed that
This ^ber was a Dissenting niinister, after they had gone over sercnil
parts of learning, according to custom, thought fit to ask him some
questions about conformity to the Church. Among other things
they inquired whether he had ever recei\'ed the Sacrament according
to the Church of Engbnd? He returning a negative answer, they
seemed surprised, and blamed the master for not obliging the upper
lads that intended 10 stand at the election for the University to
receive the Sacrament before they did so, desiring that this nught bo
carefully minded for the future. They asked Mr. Kentish whether
he was free to receive the Sacrament in the Established Church,
telling him lliat without that— luy, without yielding to an entire con-
formity— he had better not think of the University, which would be
a-giving him-telf and others much needless trouble. He modestly
made answer that he had not, as yet, received the Sacrament any-
where, not being satisfied as to his being fit or qualified for so
solemn an ordinance ; and, he added, that as to conformity in all
hthings to the Church of England, it was a thing of weight, and that he
'could not but think it would be a great weakness in him to pretend to
determine or promise it without mature and close consideration.**
iTbe examinere, whilst they applauded Mr. Kentish's learning, agreed
rto appoint someone else in his stead. Hartcliff, it is said,' received
the appointment of Headmaster of the Merchant Taylors' School
through the interest of his uncle. Dr. John Owen. But Calnmy
speaks well of him: "Often would he carry me into his Btudy and
talk with me alone about the improvement of my leisure time. He
lent mc Greek authors, which I found great pleasure in readings

» Wilson. HiUtry tf Menkant Tayitrt* S,h»ct.

2.?6

Tht Gentleman's Magazine,

often wondering at St, Augustine's acknowledgment that in the
beginning of his studies he haled Greek learning. My master also
furnished me with other books, putting me upon making references
and remarks in a sort of commonplace book ; inquired bow I went
cn, and gave me particular directions and advice as he sav
occasion. When I was leaving him he offered me any ser\'ice he
could do me at the University if I looked that way; and when he
was afterwards made one of the Canons of Windsor, and heard I was
conic abroad into the world, he would often speak of mc with respect,
upon occasion, and when I came in his way ever treated me with the
utmost civility." Again, Cakimy was placed with an ejected minister,
Mr. Walton, at Bethnal Green, but had to leave through his school
breaking up. Whilst there, however, he says he and another pupil
" had free access to the old gentleman's library, and were admitted
to familiar conversation with him, who spent some time with us every
morning and afternoon in reading Thucydides and Tacitus, on both
which he would make pleasant remarks as we went along. This I
found both agreeable and profitable."

A\Tiilst Cabmy was at Bethnal Green, Mr. Charles Morton heard
of him. This Mr, Morton is described as one who had been
" eminent for training up young gentlemen in an academical
way at Nemngton Green." But, driven by persecution to seek
refuge in America, he determined to invite others to accompany him,
and asked Calamy to come and be as his own child to him.
Calamy's mother objected, and instead of going to America with
Mr. Morton, the youth next went to Mr. Samuel Cradock.

Cradock had been a Fellow of Emmanuel College at Cambridge,
and, taking a living in Somersetshire, ;wa5 ejected in 1662. Later on,
however, he had succeeded to an estate in Suffolk, and from 1673 to
1706, in which year he died, he acted as a minister of religion with-
out payment, and look in pupils to his " academy." He lived as a
country gentleman. There Calamy met Mr. Timothy Goodwin, who
was a good Grecian, and " we two often spent our winter evenings
together in reading over some or other Greek author." Goodwin
became Archbishop of Cashel. ** Mr. Cradock treated us in a
gendenunlike manner. He lived upon his own estate, kept a good
house, and was much respected by the gentlemen all round the
countT)', preached in his omi dwelling twice every Lord's Day,and such
of his neighbours as were inclined to it were his auditors, and his
ministry was of use, though he had nothing for his pains. He had a
good correspondence with old Mr. Cowpcr, the minister of the
parish."

TAe Edmcaium of ike Early Ntmamformists. 257

WhcnCalany hadgonelfaroag^acoaiaeof phikianiihy widiMr.
Cradock he letpmcd to London, and for a afaoit time be was again
I^aced under Mr. DooGttle. In 1687-^8 be vas nsed to go to
HoQanc^ to pmsne his stodies at Ubecfat. On irarhiiig Utiecfa^
Calamj went to die Enghdi coflee-hoos^ and ducofcicd a wnnhgr
of F.«g1i«h itndnitii and cesidents. There was abo an Fn^ith
cfaarcb, thoogb vitb a Dnrrhman as pieadier. ia to tbe UtredA
students Calamy says : —

** I cannot bat radon it a disuhantage to diem that tfaey were
left to their ovn my, witboot aiqrooe to instruct tbeir uuaueia.
Tbeynug^ indeed, be as good as they would, stody baid in thdr
sevoal lod^i^nga^ and lire sobeify and nrtooosly, if tfaey were that
way inclined ; bat if it were otherwise; and they mtwpent their
time^ and neither attended the professors nor studied in their own
quarters, ibef bad none calling them to an aocoont ; and I cannot
but s^ I re<^on the collegiate wa^ of liviog in oar Eng^ Unirtr-
aities^ iriiere lads have their particnlar tnton^ as wdl as each hoose
has a separate master empowered to keep in order his own sociely,
much to be piefeiied to the liriz^ so at laij^"

As to studies at Utrech^ Calamy went throu^ a coarse of
philosophy under De Vries ; civil law with Van der Moyden ; cne
□pcm "Sophodes" under Grerin^ and another under Grevios on
"PufiendcHTs Introduction to History." He was also under
Witsius for theology, and attended lectures of three other Professors
of IHvinity. Calamy gjves many interesting details as to his life and
studies in Holland, where he remained three years. In 1691 be
returned to England, and proceeded to Oxford for the purpose of
studying there.

We have followed the course of his education — up to this point —
through his list of schools and teachers. They were prevailingly
Nonconformist in tendency. Nothing couM be better indicative of
the (^ten-mindedness of Calamy, and indeed kA his trainers, than
the &ct that when he gets to Oxford he writes : '' I had it now
particularly imder consideration whether I should determine for
conformity or non-conf<ninity.''

The influences at Oxford were distinctly favourable to an in-
clination towards the Chorch of England. Calamy himself says :
" I was entertained from day to day with what tended to give any
man the best ofunion of the Church by law established. I was a
witness of her learning, wealth, grandeur, and splendour. I was
treated by the gentlemen of the University with all imaginable
civility. I heard their sermons, and frequently attended their public

238

The Gentleman s Magazifie,

lectures and academical exercises. I was Tree in conversation as
opportunities oflTered ; and was oRen argued with about consorting
vith such a despicable, such an unsociable sort of people as the
Nonconform isls were represented. But I fook all occasions to
express my hearty respect and value for real worth wherever I eould
meet with if.** Cabmy ^o^v carefully studied the Bible, read Church
History, some of the Early Fathers, and controversy centred about
Ignatius's " Six Epistles " ; Chilli ngworth's *' Religion of Protestants,
a Safe Way to Salvation " ; Hooker's " Eight Books of Ecclesiastical
Polity." Later, too, he read Jeremy Taylor's " Ductor Dubitantiura,"

Calamy, at any rate, was in earnest in his search for truth.
Perhaps the tendency of his education and anteccdenUi pre-
disposed him ; but his attitude in his search was truly admirable.
He "determined" for Nonconformity. "I, at the same time,
resolved that I would ever study the things that made for peace and
mutual edification, and do all that in me lay to promote a catliotic
spirit and brotherly love, and avoid, as much as I was able, nanow-
ncss, bitterness, wrath, clamour, and evil speaking, and such-like
fruits of the flesh, together with giving oflcnce to any in the use of
my liberty : ' Keeping the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace,*
Thus doing, I thought I could ntrver be justly charged with that
uncbaritableness and disa^ection which passes in Scripture under
the name of ' schism.*"

If we consider the educational influences under which Calamy
was brought up, it seems safer to term them Puritanic in the old
sense of the term rather than Nonconformist in the modem sense.
Taught by his mother, "the good old Mr. Lye," by Mr. Nelson
(the church curate), by Mr. Vewel, Mr. Tatnal, Mr. DooUitle, at
Merchant Taylors' under Mr. Hartcliff, by Mr. Walton, and by Mr.
Samuel Cradock, there is a charming division of influence bet^veen
Church and Dissent, provided always that the pieiistic element was
retained. Even in his University life, at Utrecht and at Oxford, he
passed his time in and out amongst both sides ^"d, when he finally
decides for Nonconformity, more impressive than his actual choice
is his spirit of tolerance and admiration for what he admits to be
good in the religious organisation outside of which he elects to take
his stand.

In taking the case of Edmund Calamy for illustration, ve ore
inclined to believe that it is a t)*pical case.

It is not easy always to trace with the same closeness of detail the
course of thcschool-trianing of early Nonconformists, for the schools
of the Nonconformists were mercilessly harried out of enslcnce, or

The Education of the Early Nonconformists, 239

changed from one place to another, so as to make their tracing diHi-
cult. There arc sufficienl indications of this persecution in the sketch
given by Calamy. But the best features of a liberal education were
keenly sought after by Puritanic families of the Calamy class. It was
not merely a liberal education of the old grammar-school type —
founded upon a severe course in the reading of classical authors, in
theme-writing, and endless imitation of Cicero and Terence — but an
education which, in the end, brought the man to an eager desire for
theological truth» and a willingness to take untold pains in its in-
vestigation, together with a spirit of charity which could bless and
wish god-spccd to those who differed from him in opinion, as long
as he believed that those differing from him were sincere and right-
hearted.

It is not possible, in the limits of this article, to sketch in detail
the history of Dissenters* academics. But it is desirable to point
out the spirit of the liberal education which went on in them. The
first was established by Richard Frankland, who is said to have been
nominated by Cromwell as vice-president of the college which the
Protector intended to establish at Durham. This, however, was not
carried out, and on the accession of Charles II. and the passing of
the Act of Uniformity, Frankland declined to conform, and was duly
ejected. He started an academy, to which some of the gentry sent
their sons, instead of sending them to the Universities, and along
with these he educated others for the ministry. He illustrates well
the determined spirit in which these Puritanic teachers persisted
in their work. He began his academy at Rathmel, in Yorkshire.
Dri\*en by the implacable persecution of those in auth(»ity from
Rathmel, he ttansferred his academy fir^t to Natland, near Kendal ;
thence to Dawsonfield, in Westmorland ; thence to Halburrow, in
Lancashire ; tlience to Calton, in Craven, in Yorkshire ; thence to
Attercliff, near Sheffield ; finally, back again to Rathmel. " The
good man's life was a pilgrimage indeed, in external changes as well
as in the inward temper of his mind ; and the students, as well as
the tutor, were disciples of the cross. . . . Scarcely a year elapsed,
from 16S8 till his death, in which he did not suffer trouble for
keeping an academy and training up young men for the dissenting
ministry." ' " He was a man of great moderation," says Calamy, in
the Nonconformists' Memorial.

In the " Continuation of the Account of the Ejected Ministers,"
by Calamy (vol. l pp. » 77-97), is given Cliarles Morton's " Viodi-

* BogtK lad BctinctI, ilitUry eftht Ditttnttts^ vol i. p. 999,

240

The Gentiematts Magazine.

cation of Himself and BTethren» being reflected upon for teaching
University learning." This is the Charles Morton who wished to take
Calamy with him to America. Speaking of the objection that some
Nonconformists sent their sons to the Universities and some to the
Academies, so evidently [all were not of the same mind, Morton
disclaims all responsibility for those whose consciences would allow
Ihcm to be so inconsistent as to partake of a University education at
the cost of professing ecclesiastical views which they did not really
believe. But he adds : " I shall conclude, heartily wishing and
praying that there may be an happy end of these divisions, and that
all men would unite in being conformists to the infallible and
indispensable rule, the pure Word of God."

Mr. Samuel Cradock,whoalsowrotea"Vindication of Academy-
Teacliing,"also appears in the " Continuation " as a representative of
*' moderation." ^ Mr, Bury, who preached the funeral sermon, says
of him ; " His temper was truly catholic. He \-alued every man for
his goodness, and was valued by all that were truly good, and not
abandoned to parties or schismatical principles on one side or other."
Samuel Palmer, in his " Defence of ihc Dissenters' Education in
their Private Academies" (1703), gives his testimony as to his old
tutor at one of these academies : " 1 never beard him make one un-
handsome reflection on the Church of England, though I know he
abhorred the profane faction that confidently assume that honour-
able name ; but have heard bim speak with that high character
of the piety, virtue, and learning of my Lord of London as ex-
ceeds all that the Episcopal clergy themselves usually speak of that
prelate."

These passages will be sufficient to show the attitude of the
Nonconformists in the Nonconformists' academies of Calamy's
times towards the Church. It represents, indeed, a detachment
from the Church ecclesiastically \ but in spite of persecution, un-
deniably bitter and unjustified, there is still the sympathy towards
so "venerable a body" which at least provided an educational
element in the academy of great consequence for the intellectual
discipline of the students. The great German educational philosopher,
Herbart, says that education consists in its materia), not merely in
the acquisition of knowledge through instruction ; but he insists that
equally necessary is the instruction which widens the sympalhics and
helps men better to understand one another. Itappears dear that with
these early Nonconformists — if Calamy's is a typical case, as we believe
it is, of the representative early Nonconformist academies— even

' Vol U. p 735.

Tk^ EducaiioH of the Early Nonconfomttsts. 241

ijte theological studies were conducted in a way which broadened
the sympathies of the students, and helped their education away from
that narrowness of dognutic assertion which has regard to the intel-
lectual position of opponents.

This position of attempting to undcn>tand points of view different
from one's own seems to us to mark a new era in theological education,
and in education generally. It is comparable, politically} to the New
EnglanJcrs, who, thoUfjh bound to oppose the mother -country, felt
a great love and leaning even to those who were doing them so great
a wrong in the attack on their political rights and freedom. And the
constant good feeling between America and England, in spite of all
the cruel hardships which have had to be borne, as shown in the
best minds and hearts of both nations, is paralleled in the altitude of
the cultured Nonconformists of the academies to the old Church
from which, for conscience' sake only, they liad to shut themselves
off. This giowth of sympalliy, combined with knowledge, isi the
academies is undoubtedly connected historically with the finest
spirit of tlie modem demand for freedom of thought in all matters of
speculative inquiry.

So far as to the relation of Nonconformist education to the
development of inquiry, at once critical and sympathetic, to standing
institutions. It is the inculcation through instruction of what
Herbart calls sympathy. Some account f^hould be added as to the
material of knowledge given in these academies.

Boguc and Bennett, in their " History of Dissenters," state the
ordinary curriculum as being: Greek and Latin classics, logic,
metaphysics, natural and moral philosophy, rhetoric, theology, and
biblical criticism. Palmer, in his "Defence of the Academies,"
states that the course of training \n the academies was ordinarily
for five years. The text-books used by Mr. James Owen ^ in his
n^acadcmy at Shrewsbury were : —

In logic, Burgersdicius, Hereboord, Ramus; in metaphysics,
Fromcnius, Eustachius, Baronius ; in phpics, I^ Clerc, Du Hamcl ;
in geometry, Tardic's Elements, Euclid \ in astronomy, Gassendus ;
in chronology. Strauchius ; in ecclesiastical history, Spanhemius ; in
^theology, Wollcbius. A very interesting and complete account of
he work of an academy is given by Palmer * : —

" It was our custom to have lectures appointed to certain times,
and we began the morning with logic We read Hereboord, which
is the same as is generally read at Cambridge. The next superior

1 Bogoe and Benoctl, t. 345*
■ Qaot«d by Soguc aad Bennett, [. 34J.
VOL. CCXCl. KO. 2049. 8

242

The Gentlemans Magazine,

class read metaphysics, of which Fromcnius's Synopsis was our
manual, and, by directions of our tutor, wc were assisted in our
chambers by Baronius, Suarez, and Colbert. Ethics was our next
study; and our system — Hereboord in reading, which our tutor
recommended to our meditation, Dr. Henry More, Marcus Antonius
Epictetus, with the Comments of Arrian and Simplicius and the
morals of Solomon, and, under this head, the moral works of the
great Puffendorf. The highest class was engaged in natural
philosophy, of which Le Clerc was our system, whom we compared
with the ancients and with other moderns, as Aristotle, Des Cartes,
Colbert, Staire, &c, We disputed, every other day, in Ijtin, upon
the several philosophical controversies, and as these lectures were
read off, some time was set apart to introduce rhetoric, in which
that short piece of John Gerard Vossius was used in the school, but
in our chambers were assisted by his larger volume, Aristotle, and
Tully, ' De Oratore.' These exercises were all performed every
morning, except that on Mondays we added, as a divine lecture,
some of Buchanan's Psalms, the finest of the kind, both for purity of
language and exact sense of the original ; and on Saturdays all the
superior classes declaimed by turns, four and four, on some noble
and useful subject, such as ' De pace,' ' Logicane magis inserviat
CKteris disciplinis an rhetorics,' 'Dcconnubto virtutis cum doctrina,'
itc, and I can say that these orations were, for the most part, of
uncommon eloquence, purity of style, and manly and judicious
composure.

"After dinner, our work Ijegan by reading some one of the
Greek or Latin historians, orators, or poets, of which, first, I
remember Sallust,, Quintius Curtius, Justin, and Paterculus ; of the
second, Demosthenes, Tully, and Isocrates' ' Select Orations ' ; and
of the last, Homer, Virgil, Juvenal, Persius, and Horace. This
reading was the finest and most delightful to young gcnllemen of
all others, because it was not in the pedantic method of common
schools ; but the delicacy of our tutor's criticisms, his exact descrip-
tion of persons, terms, and places, illustrated by referring to Rosin
and other antiquarians, and his just application of the morals, made
such a lasting impression as rendered all our other studies more facile.
In geography we read * Dionysii Pcriegcsis ' compared with Cluverius,
which at this lecture always lay upon the table.

*' Mondays and Fridays we read divinity, of which the first lecture
was always in the Greek Testament, and it was our custom o go
through it once a year ; we seldom read less than six or seven
chapters, and this was done with the greatest accuracy. We were

The Education of the Early Nonconformists. 243

obliged to give the most curious etymons, and were assisted with
the Synopsis Criticoram, Martinius, Favorinus, and Hesychius's
lexicons, and it was expected that the sacred geography and
chronology should be particularly observed and answered too, at
demand, of which I never knew my tutor sparing. The other
divinity lecture was on Synopsis Ptirioris Theologias, as very accurate
and short ; we were advised to read by ourselves the more large
pieces of Turretine, Theses Salmurienses, Baxter's Methodus
Thcologiffi, and Archbishop Usher's, and, on particular contro-
versies, many excellent authors, as, on original sin, PlacKus, and
Barlow, * De Natura Mali ' ; on grace and free-will, Rutherford,
Strangius, and Amyraldus ; on the Popish controversy, Amesius
Bellarminus £nervatus> and the modern disputes during the reign of
King James; on Episcopacy, Altare Damaccnum, Bishop Hall, and
Mr. Baxter ; Bishop Stillingfleet's Irenicum, Dr. Owen and Ruther-
ford ; and for practical divinity, Baxter, Tillotson, Chamock — and,
in a word^ the btst books of the Episcopalian^ Pttshyierian, and
Independent divines were in their order recommended, and con-
stantly used by those of us who were able to procure them ; and ail
or most of them, I can affirm, were the study of all the pupils."

Boguc and Bennett also give the testimony of Mr. Seeker (in a
letter to Dr. Isaac Watts) as to subjects and methods pursued at
the Gloucester academy of Mr. Jones. Seeker's letter confirms the
liberal nature of the academy's courses.

It will thus be seen that these old Nonconformist academies
were very much in the position of the newer Universities of the
present day. They ventured to introduce new studies and new
methods ; but they were largely bound by the old traditions whenever
these seemed to be of valid significance for general culture. Episco-
palian classical writings were welcomed even in these Nonconformist
theological seminaries, if ibey brought forward material for theological
culture. These institutions may have been schismatic in relation to
the Church, but they were not sectarian in their spirit. And the
scienti6c attitude of free inquiry thus found its way into institutions
for theological studies. Men like Calamy, with broad outlook on
life, could go through these academics and at the end of their course
preserve an open mind— and it was only after further study they
*' determined " for or against Episcopalianism.

It is difficult to say how many of these academies there were in
the early days of Nonconformity. Bogue and Bennett mention
Taunton, Shrewsbury, Hoxlon Square (London), Newington Green,
Exeter, Bridgwater, Tiverton, Colyton, Gloucester, Tewkesbury,

244

Tke Gentleman s MagaztTte.

Manchester, Coventry- ; and tempcrary academies at Suiby (North-
amptonshire), Netllebed (Oxfordshire), Wickhambrook (SufTolk),
Islington, Saffron Walden, Pinner, Uighgate, Dartmouth, Lincoln,
Nottingham, Stourbridge, and at Llangynwydd In Glamorganshire.
There are suggestions of others, but this list is sufficient to show
that scholarly Nonconformity liad to supply from within the place
of the Universities for those Nonconformists who were unwilling for
ihcir sons to subscribe the tests, with which they did not intellectually
agree. And the evidence seems to suggest that Calaroy is a typical
early Nonconformist of the cultured type.

Let me repeat the words of Calamy describing the spirit of his
father's method of training — which I suggest is on excellent state-
ment of the early Nonconformist attitude towards religious educa-
tion : —

" I was from my infancy carefully instructed in the common
Christian principles of truth and duty, so in matters of diflerence
among professing Christians I had moderation instilled into me
from my very cradle. Never did I hear my father inveigh against
those tliat officiated in the public churches, nor did he attempt to
create in me any prejudices against them or their way ; but he took
all occasions that offered to declare against heat and rancour on all
sides, and for loving all such as were truly pious, and bore the
image of God upon them, whatsoever their particular sentiments
might be."

When the history of English education comes to be written, it
will be surely found that this spirit of the early Nonconformist
academies was a great formative influence, and has had effects
not sufHciently recognised upon the course of the history of our
national culture.

FOSTER WATSON.

HYDERABAD: A CHAPTER OF
ANCIENT HISTORY.

Kot uident in point of time, for tbe scene I am about to recall Es Uitle more
ihon thirty yexn old ; bat compuc it with the Hyderabad of the present day, and
you will see it has some cl&Lm to be so called.

I
I

10 the year 1868 the British representative (called the
Resident) at the Court of the Nizam and his suite, when
paying a visit to His Highness, used to take off their shoes in an ante-
room, struggle through a motley crowd of hangers-on into the Hall
of Audience in stockinged feet» and seat themselves on the floor to
the left of the Musnud, on which, sitting motionless like a sphinx,
with eyes fixed on vacancy that refused to meet those of his visitors,
the 6rst of our Indian feudatorj' princes awaited their coming. To
the right of the Musnud — a simple contrivance of cushions co\"ered
in white cotton on a raised pbtform — with their feet tucked under
them, their hands with joined palms in prayerful attitude, knelt or
sat on their heels the Dewan (or Prime Minister) and chief nobles of
Ihe Court; while behind the Nizam knelt Shams -ul-umra, Amir-i-
Kabir, holding a tuft of peacock feathers secured in a long socket^
which every now and then he waved slowly over the royal turban,
thereby denoting that it was the privilege of the Premier noble to
guard his chief from the intrusive fly or mosquito.

From a British point of view the ceremony was anything but
impressive. The Nizam, whose fair skin and grey eyes recalled his
Mongol origin, had at one time been a tall, fine man, with a taste for
hunting and active habits, which disappeared soon after his elevation
to the Musnud, it being a tradition of office that no man was worlliy
to approach the Presence save with bowed head and downcast eyes,
and that the Presence was of such exalted dignity it should not make
itself cheap by leaving the precincts of its own palace too often,
dthcr on horse or elephant or in a carriage. When it did leave
those precincts and passed tlirough the city on very rare occasioni
«a edict went forth commanding His Highness's subjects to descend

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The Genileman's Magazine.

to the ground floor of their dwellings as he passed, so that the sacri-
lege of anyone being on a higher level than the Sun of the Universe,
the Pole Star of the Firmament, &c., &c., might be avoided. No
wonder that when, as one of the Resident's Assistants, I first set eyes
on the Presence it was a mountain of flesh. Yet there was no mis-
taking its dignity. Afzut-ud-doulah looked a king, while he posed as
a god. What he was like when he stood up 1 cannot say ; in my day
Englishmen never ever saw him on his feet ; that was a privilege, if
report spoke truly, reserved only for fiddlers and dancing girls, who
saw more of the Presence than anyone else- It is the misfortune of
princes to be nursed on adulation ; this one, alas ! had fattened on
the diet to such extent that he honestly believed himself far above
the level of humanity, bound to look down on all round him. He
would call his Dewan a dog, not out of anger, but merely because
no one else dare treat the second man in his kingdom with anything
but respect. The gulf between an Eastern potentate and his Minister
is always immense ; nowhere within the bounds of civilisation could
it have been wider than at Hyderabad in those days. Yet even
AfJEul-ud-doulah must have known that his Dewan, Sir Salar Jung,
had rendered priceless service to the State, and was one of nature's
noblemen to boot. The favour with which he was regarded by the
British Government, the high esteem in which he was held by all
classes, accentuated, no doubt, his master's disfavour; more especially
as that master's feelings towards the Paramount Power were inwardly,
it was sometimes thought, less imbued with loyalty than his outward
policy. The latter had been framed on the counsels of Sir Salar
Jung and the leading nobles, and bad brought him nch reward in the
dark days of the Mutiny, when Hyderabad refused to be led astray;
yet the Nizam had never shown cordiality towards the British
Residency or its supporters— possibly because he did not wish to
acloinwledge too openly the source of his dignity and power, and pre-
ferred the barbaric isolation which he conceived it to be his duly as
head of the State to maintain unimpaired from the hands of his pre-
decessors. His view of past history dwelt, as far as possible^ on the
relations of his Court towards the pioneers of England in the East
a century ago ; uneducated and not too intelligent, he remained
imbedded in a cocoon of ignorance and tradition from which he bad
no desire to emerge. One can understand, and not without
iympathy, the delight he must have experienced in receiving an
envoy from the Queen in a manner more befitting the past than the
present ; a manner which even an enlightened and patriotic Minister like
Sir Salar Jung was anxioui to uphold, because it marked a privilego

Hyderabad : a Chapter of Ancient History. 247

enjoyed b}' no other feudatory prince in India. For a few moments
it placed the Nizam on a level with the then independent King of
Ava. It was amusing to note how His Highncss.would maintain this
high level by restricting his interview with the Resident to a few slow
sentences, delivered with an impassive countenance. After the
Court Munshi, standing up, had read out in sonorous Persian the
Viceroy's Kharita deputing the Resident by name to be his repre-
sentative at tlie Nizam's Court, and commending him to his "honoured
and valued friend," &c., tlic officer so accredited would express his
pleasure at having at length obtained the desire of his heart in being
deputed to Hyderabad, of whose renown he tiad often heard, and
also his wish to avail himself of every opportunity to cement the
relations of amity and concord which had so long subsisted between
Her Majesty's Government and that of her faithful Ally. If the
Nizam were in a good humour he might respond by giving the
speaker a word of personal welcome, as brief as possible; but
generally he put aside verbiage of that kind as unnecessary. He
would inquire first after the health of Her Alajcsty, then as to the
Viceroy's health, after a long pause : another pause would prelude a
remark that he understood the Viceroy had gone to the Hills for
cliange of^r j a third would introduce an observation as to the air of
the Hills being cold. Short sentences and long pauses are in accord-
ance with Oriental etiquette at fuU-dress Durbars, and conduce to
dignity ; so, having referred to the Queen and Viceroy, and not caring
to descend to lower topics, His Highness would give the sign for
distribution of a//ar and /an, a ceremony that denoted the termina-
tion of the Durbar and brought the Resident and His suite to their
feet again. Then we filed out again, each salaaming as we [xisscd in
front of His Highness at a distance of several feet, scrambled in
the ante-room for our boots, and departed, as we came, on elephants.
Some of us, especially the General, his Slaff, and other military
officers from the Cantonment of Sccunderabad, who were wont to
accompany the Resident on such occasions, would wonder how a
scene like this could be enacted in the year 1S68. And no one
wondered more than Mr. Charles Burslem Saunders, C.B., of the
Bengal Civil Service, who went to Hyderabad that year as Reiident.
His retiring disposition, kindness of heart, and unbounded hospi-
tality, had made him extremely popular wherever he had served; no
one could have been more aflfablc or considerate towards rutives as
well as his own countrymen, or less open (o the faintest suspicion of
haukur or highhanded dealing. His courage had been tested in
tb« Mutiny, and he had been created C-B. when quite a young man

248

The Geniieman's Magazine,

after the siege of Delhi ; but no remembrance of these scenes was
ever allowed to influence his gentle guileless nature, so full of good-
will to all men, white or hrown, as those who knew him in the
Punjab, Berar, Mysore, and Hyderabad can testify. The spirit of
the imperial race within him kicked, however, at the idea of Kngllsb
officers being obliged to sit shoeless on the floor in the presence of
any tributary prince ; he resented the ceremonial just described as a
personal indignity as well as a slight to his Government, and seemed
to derive little consolation from the view that old customs die hard,
and that the survival of this one during and since the time of the all-
compelling Dalhousie must indicate the existence of reasons at least
entitled to respect. It had lived to be an anachronism, no doubt,
through the tenderness of the Paramount Power towards old
traditions ; but the difl^culty of getting rid of it during the lifetime of
a Nizam who had stood by that Power in the Mutiny, and had been
rewarded in consequence, was often lost sight of by its critics. To
understand the posiuon further, it must be remembered that at that
lime Hyderabad, a hotbed of intrigues of various kinds, an Atsatia
for all who plotted against law and order, offered an asylum to
ruflians wanted by the police all over British India, with which it was
still unconnected by rail ; and our Government was trying to
strengthen the hands of a Minister who had already done much to
improve its administration. Any attempt to diminish what the
Nizam conceived to be his dignity would certainly have weakened
the authority of Sir Salar Jung, already regarded by his master with
jealousy and suspicion on account of his supposed subserviency to
British interests.

On the 26th February, 1869, I was sitting with Mr. Saunders,
when a mounted orderly galloped up to the Residency with a letter
from the Minister, announcing the startling intelligence of tlie death
of the Nizam. His Highness, though not forty-five years of age,
had long been in bad health, afflicted by a disease which, it was said,
would have yielded to the knife of a skilful English surgeon, had he
cared to consult one. It was his way, however, to be treated only by
native hakttms or doctors, who dared not, and would not hnve been
aIIo\\-ed had they dared, to resort lo other remedies than medicines
which they were obliged to swallow themselves when prescribing for
the royal patient, in whose presence two or three doses would of^cn
be made up, one of which the prescriber had to take himself before
Uie other reached the lips of the Nizam. Apart from the distrust
implied by this Oriental method, the responsibility of advising and
prescribing for a personage of such exalted rank and power was

Hyderabad: a Chapter of Ancient History. 249

enoogh to make the most competent hakeem hesitate to incur the
least risk ; so temporary relief was all they aimed at, and no wonder.
Ttie cause of death, however, was, we learned afterwards, an attack of
fever, which His Highness insisted on treating in a manner not
ordered by his physicians, and which no one anticipated for a
moment would be fatal. Hence its result look the Minister and
Resident completely by surprise. The latter at once sent a reply
to say he would call on the former, and ordered his carriage for that
purpose ; but before he started a message from Sir Salar Jung begged
him to delay lus visit, as the city was in an uproar, and a party of
Arabs (in those days a considerable faction, remarkable for their
turbulence) had taken possession of the bridge which guarded the
entrance to it, and would let no Englishman pass. In the course
of an hour or so, Sir Salar Jung had cleared away this obstacle, and
Mr. Saunders was soon able to confer with him in his palace, about
a mile and a half from the Residency, as to the steps to be taken.
All that day the uproar continued, fomented by rumours, spread
abroad by disaffected [Arsons, that the British Government would
annex the Stale ; till, towards the evening, the Resident deemed it
prudent to authorise the issue of a proclamation that the Govcrnratnt
of India would recognise the succession of the late Af^ul-ud-doulah's
only son, a child three years old. Then things quieted down, and
during the next two days the Dcwan, the premier noble, and his
eldest son, who was married to a daughter of Afzulud-doulah, met
Mr. Saunders at the Residency in conference as to the scheme of
administration to be submitted for the approval and orders of the
Viceroy, who had, of course, Ijeen informed by telegram of all that
had occurred.

It is Ihe custom on the third day after the demise of a ruling
chief for the British representative to pay a formal visit of condolence
to his successor. Great importance was attached to this visit as an
act of State sealing the recognition already proclaimed of the heir to
the Musnud ; and great was the concern of Sir Salar Jung and his
colleagues to hear at those Residency conferences that Mr. Saunders
was bent on abolishing the old manner of his reception by the Nizam
and introducing the custom of all other Indian Courts, which
allotted chairs lo the right in Durbar to all British officers, and did
not oblige them to take off their shoes. In vain the Minister
pleaded for the retention of the one privilege which distinguished
the Nizam's Court, the first in order of precedence, from others, and
urged that to take it away now at the commencement of a minority,
when the young prince was unable to say a word on his own behalf.

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The GefUleman's Magazine*

would reflect unfavourably on the reputation of the Paramount
Power, and sliU more on his own, be being joint guardian of the
prince's interests. Mr. Saunders stood firm, and declared that unless
the Viceroy, to whom the question had been referred, should order
otherwise, he must seize the present opportunity of ending an
anachronism which, if it had any meaning, was derogatory to the
Paramount Power. He pointed out at the same time that it was a
relic of barbarism, no Indian prince or subject being ever asked to
take off his turban in the presence of Her Majesty ; and further,
that the custom in question operated to bar all intercourse between
the Nizam and the Resident, whose advice should be freely offered
at all limes to the head of the Stale, who under the new ngime to be
inaugurated would be educated to fulfil his duties according to tlio
requirements of modern civilisation. Then Sir Salar Jung played
his last card, and said he did not know how he could undertake to
answer for the safely of the Resident on his journey to and from the
Nizam's palace if it were known that this a.ncicnt privilege was to be
taken away. Mr. Saunders responded by referring to what Lord
Canning bad said some years before, when a shot had been fired iii
the presence of Nizam Afzul-ud-doulah by an unknown hand at
Colonel Davidson, or else for the purpose of intimidating h\rtu
Rising to the occasion with dignity and good sense, His Highness
commanded his Minister to escort the Resident back to the
Residency — " His safely be on your bead," he added. The Viceroy,
in noticing this incident, congratulated His Highness on the spirit
he had shown, hying stress on the fact that the Imperial Govern-
ment regarded the person of its ambassadors as sacred, and stating
tliat had the Resident been injured on this occasion it was impossible
to say what consequences might have ensued, imperilling even the
independence of the Hyderabad State. Mr. Saunders's reference to
this letter, followed shortly after by a telegram from Lord Atayo
(ihcn Viceroy) approving his proposal, closed the discussion, and
there was nothing left to the Mini!>ler and his colleague, the Nawnb
Shams-ul-umra« but to give effect to the change in question.

On the morning of the visit of condolence there was a large
breakfast parly at the Residency, which included the General and
other officers from Secunderabad ; a troop of Horse Artillery was
encamped in the grounds to fire a salute in honour of the young
prince; and for the first time telegraphic communication between the
Residency and cantonment, four miles disunt, was established. A
special significance attached to this last arrangement, made hurriedly
in view of the recent and still seething comtnouon in the city, and

Hyderabad: a Chapter of Ancient History, 251

the desirability of keeping ihe Government of India informed with-
out delay of anything that might occur at such a time of excitement ;
while the difficult)* referred to just now of guaranteeing the Resident
a safe return from his visit lo the Nizam suggested the issue of
certain instructions for Ihe guidance of the General and First
Assistant Resident before Mr. Saunders started on his journey. As
I was one of the two English officers who accompanied him, the
other being the commandant of his escort, that journey is indelibly
stamped on my memory. Oar two elephants waded slowly through
dense crowds up to the door of the Nizam's palace. Being on the
leading one, tn the same howdah with Mr. Saunders, I remember
there was not too much room for me, and that not a hand was lifted
to salaam the Resident as he passed. The silence and sullenness of
the masses on either hand, from which looked up uncouth Arabs,
bold Pathans (locally known as Rohillas) and Hindustanis, faces
stamped with lawlessness by the side of others, fortunately more
numerous, which wore an aspect of docile indifference, were not
over pleasant, more especially as every man in the mob carried arms
of some description. AH along the line, particularly where side
streets and lanes abutted the main thoroughfare, were posted State
oops and loj'al adherents, who could be relied on to repress any
Iden hntuk. The Ministers had taken every precaution to guard
e Resident ; the only risk was from the bullet of some fanatic or
secret enemy— the common risk of all persons in high station every-
where, though commoner in some places than in others, and in times
when hearts are burning than when they are cooL Nevertheless, it
iras a relief, not less to Salar Jung and Shams-ul-umra than to the
Resident, when the day's ceremony was safely concluded. It was
very brief. The young Kizam appeared in the arms of a nurse to
hold his first Purbar, not without alarm, as was natural, at the sight
of so unusual a concourse and his first view of white faces. But his
tears were soon dried by the Resident's modal and my watch chain
being dangled in front of him, and his being allowed to play with
them— an omen regarded as of happy import by those around.
With a few kind words and smiles Mr. Saunders, after taking his
scat on the right of the child, soon closed the interview; the
Ministers presented attar and pan^ and wl- left the palace. On our
return journey the tension in the air which had marked, or seemed
to mark, our previous progress, was sensibly diminished. If it really
existed in the imagination of more than a few persons it was probably
more due to the rumours which had been circulated of a want of
benevolence in the intentions of the Imperial Government with

25^

The Gentleman s Magazine.

regard to the Nizam's succession than to any idea of the general
populace that his dignity was about to be lowered by a new method
of reception in Durbar, of which I can hardly suppose them to hare
been made aware. However this may be, the new method vras
inaugurated without any hitch, and without evoking any visible sign
of displeasure then or since. Nowadays it has become old, to the
satisfaction, I dare say, of the most conservative Hydcrabadee who
desires the welfare of his country. No one can blame Salar Jung
for resisting its introduction, or impute to him any wish to retard
useful progress ; but times change, and I who knew him intimately
for many years doubt if he passed from the scene of his triumphs in
1883 regretting the failure of his efforts to preserve for bis master
what he esteemed an ancient privilege. Alas, that the famous
Minister should have been struck down by cholera before that master
attained his majority, and that both his sons died in early manhood t
His philosophic temperament rebelled against no change that
appeared inevitable ; and he may even now in another world regard
with equanimity the fact that a son of his ancient rival and stoutest
opponent occupies the post he held with such surpassing tact and
skill. But my little stor>' is finished, and I must not give way to the
temptation of further reminiscences. I have thought this one worth
recounting, partly out of respect to the memor>' of a former chief
and friend, also passed away to the Land of the l^al, and partly 10
mark the contrast between Then and Now. Those who know the
present Nizam, His Highness Mahboob Ali Khan, the splendid
entertainments he gives to distinguished persons when they visit his
capital, and his skill with riSe and spear, will be surprised as they
read, though some eager spirits and well-wishers of the State
generally may wish the gulf between Past and Present in Hyderabad
ways and politics were even wider than it is. Mr. Kipling teaches
that " to hustle the East " is a vain thing, and he is right Still, in
many ways and in many places the wheels of change and progress
have been very busy these last thirty years, and if one wanted a.
single striking illustration of this truism, by way of contrast to the
scene just depicted, it might be found in a spectacle witnessed not
long ago, when the child 1 saw in his nurse's arms, the first of his
dynasty who ever paid a visit to Calcutta to greet an English Viceroy,
was entertained by His Excellency at a banquet at which, espousing
the cause of his Suzerain in a foreign contest, be publicly and
spontaneously proffered her his sword and the entire resources of bis
kingdom, thereby showing that be identified her interests with bis
own, and was both an intcUigcnt and loyal supporter of her Empire.

C u* XaEVOR.

OLD AGE.

'T'^O say that all men desire old age and yet that most of them
X grumble when it comes sounds like the answer to a conun-
drum. It is rather a truth wbich the moralist carefully studies and
relegates to the proper position in his system. Doubtless Methuselah
philosophised on old age when himself 900 years old, made the
ordinary good resolutions* which the old always do, and was sur-
prised when sixty-nine years afterwards the end came. So slowly
does age creep over us, that it is something of a shock to find our*
selves even at the beginning of old age. Our faculties appear as
sound as ever, our taste for life and its varied occupations and
pleasures as keen, our schemes and hopes as eagerly cherished, but
tliere is a scarcely perceptible languor in the frame, the limbs are
stiffcr than they used to be, slight shades of silver and gray show
themselves in the hair. Even then no one suspects old age. At
length a man hears someone say irreverently of him, " Old So-and-so "
said, or did, such and such a thing. Then there can be no doubt.
The shades arc beginning to deepen. It is as well to look into
matters, learn in what spirit old age must be welcomed, and what
prospects a reasonable man has of finishing the work he has set
himself to accomplish in this world.

No moralist, whether in ancient or recent times, has dwelt so
beautifully and with so much common sense upon old age as Cicero.
Every scholar remembers his famous aphorisms Mriih regard to it :
** Naturam optimam ducem tanquam Dcum sequimur," and again,
"Aptissinu omnino sunt arma seneciutis arles exercitationesque
▼irtutura." Theology reserves her teachings naturally for the pulpit,
and warns off men from expecting the future in this world, a time
which may never be granted. Serious thoughts spring forth with a
religious man in due order, like the fullblown rose from its bud. The
ordinary man, however, is wise if he makes betimes a gradual pre-
paraUon, even in worldly matters, for old age. Settled habits must
be cautiously laid aside. A man, for instance, who has been wont
all his life to read more or less late into the night should innovate
*lowly. Any diangc may affect the digestion or the power of sleep.

'"^^ -*■

254

The Gentleman s Magazhu.

Outdoor sports, again, must be cirtifully indulged. It may be a
question, save with a strong man, whether it were not safer to give
up hunting and shooting, at least to prosecute them with much
discretion. The proper sports for an old man are golf and fishing,
and even the latter rccrealioti must be used with fitting caution. It
may seriously affect the heart, if it does not directly cause gout and
rheumatism. A sensible person will relax his bodily efforts and be
contented with less exercise than he required in earlier life; gradually
dissociate yourself from, but do not wholly banish, the favourite
amusements of manhood — such seems the best advice to give with
regard to this aspect of old age.

The greatest and most becoming help in old age is undoubtedly
literature. '* Nihil est otiosa senectute jucundius. " In this leisure
able state of mind the old man betakes himself with renewed zest to
the poets and prose writers which formed his youth and manhood.
He finds new beauties and fresh graces in every favourite author.
It may be that he takes up his own pen and delights hts contempo-
raries with ripe wisdom and chastened language, the (hiils of long
observation and wide experience. VltiaX then matter

Th« foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
The heart less iKMindinQ at emotion new ?

On the sunny garden seat, or by the winter hearth, he can
summon the wit and the sage from every country and period to take
counsel with him, and by their wise sentiments add to his own store
of knowledge. Plato's pictures of old age often dwell upon these
characteristics. Thus, Cephalus, sitting with a garland round bis
head discoursing of the advantages of old age, is a charming idylL
" It is not old age," he says, " but men's dispositions which render
old age bearable or the reverse. If their tempers are mild and
easily contented, old age brings men no more troubles than will
youth," A landscape which is a perfect gem at the beginning of the
"Laws," "on the road from Gnossus to the cave and temple of
Zeus," forms an exquisite background for the aged sages of that
dialogue to converse on many moral and political subjects.' Just as
the stag and eagle renew their youth, so old men find their pulses
quicken and their intellects stimubted by such discourses as
Reynolds, Boswcll, and Johnson might liave exchanged with each
other in " The Club " ; nay, as we know from Bo^zy himself, they
did indulge in. A very sensible answer was that of Gorgias, when
asked how he had managed to grow old so pleasantly and so full of

■ ZV XtfitMcat i. uo ; Itgitt 1. 604%

Old A^,

255

observatian : ** I have Dcver," said be, ** been voot to do anything
for the sake of pteuure."

Cicero sums up the four disabtfities of old age : that it caJb as
away from acttve life, makes the frame weaker, deprives us of almost
all our pleasures, and is bat a step distant at any time from death.
A man of (be world would still dread these accompaniments of
advanced life, but Christian leadiing possesses a sure dcfL-ncc against
tlictr power. Nowadays a man decries old age mainly because it
leaves him alone in the world, relatives and friends having gradually
blktt off from him. Loss of memory, too, oppresses a man,
especially if he be a scholar. In other respects old age has brought
him judgment, sympathy, and love. Home pleasures, and especially
those derived from a flower garden, as opposed to the only garden
Cicero or VirgiVs Con-cian old man knew much of— a kitchen
garden — are always grateful to old age. Calm and iUumined like a
I^pland night is the model old man's ending. £nv)-, hatred, and
other disturbing passions are conspicuously absent. He has schooled
himself into peace and submission and at threescore years and ten
death comes to him as a friend.

If they are wise, old men will consort as much as possible wiih
the young, in order to keep their intelligence bright and flexible like
a Damascus sword-blade, and to maintain an abundant crop of
sympathies. Young men will similarly find it adi-antageous to associate
largely with the old. Thus will they be preparing themselves for
old age, and, if their aged friends be sensible and good-natured, their
own experience of life cannot but increase. Old age, indeed, can-
not away with the strong meats and drinks which are in a way
natural at young men's feasts, Cicero again has some useful and
pointed remarks on the dietary of old age, on the "pocula minuta
atque rorantia " which best become it Exercise both bodily and
Qcntal is beneficial to old age. The love of a garden, to insist upon
: again, always cheers and pleases old age, as may be seen from
Laertes to Canon Bcadon. Old Parr and Jenkins seem indeed to
have grown to thcJr great age mechanically, as it were. As a general
rule for a happy old age e^-ery faculty of body and soul ought to be
xercised, but not so much as to fatigue them. This is the great
liculty to be guarded against in a healthy age. Every kind of
ulariiy is thus to be avoided. Small wonder that the good
things of the Court killed old Parr.

One of the latest authorities to philosophise on old age wns the
late Master of Bolliol. All who had the happiness of knowing him
can imagine how dispassionately and with what an c\-enly balanced

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The Geni/etnan's Magazine,

judgment he would treat so familiar a subject. " I alvrays mean to
cherish the illusion/' he says, " which is not an illusionf that the last
years of life are the most valuable and important ; and every year I
shall try in some way or other to do more than the year before." '
He goes on tu explain that about fifty-five years of age the memory
begins to fait. Efforts of thought or feeling ought then to be avoided.
" Kepose is the natural slate of memory,"

In wise words the Master writes to Lady Stanley : "1 ask you
not to think it an affectation if I say that the later years o^ life appear
to mc from a certain point of view to be the best. They are less
disturbed by care and the world ; we begin to understand that things
never did really matter so much as we supposed, and we are able to
see them more in their true proportion, instead of being overwhelmed
by them. We are more resigned to the will of God, neither afraid
to depart nor over-anxious to stay. We cannot see into another life,
but we believe with an inextinguishable hope that there is something
still reser^'cd for us." "

It is worth while adding his apothegms on Old Age ; they are
full of hints for the old, and abound in practical wisdom : —
" 1. Beware of the coming on of age, for it will not be deiicd.
" 3. A man cannot become young by over-exerting himself.
"3. A man of sixty should lead a quiet, open-air life.
"4. He should collect the young about him, though he will find
probably in them an inclination to disregard his opinion, for he
belongs to another generation, and ' crabbed age and youth cannot
dwell together.'

"5. He should set other men to work.

" 6. He ought at sixty to have acquired authority, reticence, and
freedom from personality.

" 7. He may truly think of the last years of life as being the best,
and every year as better than the last, if he knows how to use it.

"8. He should surround himself with the pictures, books,
subjects in which be takes an interest and which he desires to
remember."'

Old age, then, resembles any other fragment of human life ; it is
a process of natural growth, cannot be avoided, and is alwaj's defied
at a man's own peril. He has it largely at his own command
whether advancing years shall leave him as a Nestor or a Theraitcs.
Hence the necessity for preparation during youth and manhood for
an orderly, and therefore a bappyi Old Age. Its philosophy appeals
10 all.

' Jowctt, Uft mtdLeittrSt U- p. 44. ' f^id, p. 382. * loiJ. ^. 79.

Old Age, 257

Each person's idiosyncrasy will suggest one of the two great
methods of q)eDding old age^ whether in the serene enjoyment of
the comitry and the tastes it engenders, or amid the society of friends
and acquaintances and the eager hurrying life of a great city.
Perhaps a judicious participation in the pleasures of each in turn is
the wiser |»rescription for sensible old age. A man rusts out in the
country, charming though the process be to certain minds ; he loses
in the other much of the leisure which is so necessary to a well-
sprat old i^;e. Whatever a man does> however, let him realise that
there is yet a call for his energies to be utilised. He may leave a
fragrant memory behind him and be sure that the good is not always
interred with his bones. The best monument is the world's respect.
And the inevitable end should never be forestalled either bodily or
intellectually. So long as the faculties are mercifully spared.

Old sge hath yet bis honoar and his \xA\ ;
Death closes all, but something ere the end.
Some work of noble note may yet be done.

A good conscience and the approbation of the world are the best
secular comforts for what, after sJl, needs no comforting, but possesses,
its own pleasures and its own consolations. Let the wise man go.
forth into the dark valley upheld by Thankfulness and Love. At a.
certain point religion and morality touch. Then it behoves the
latter, where old age is concerned, to lay her hand upon her mouth
and be still.

M. G, WATKINS.

VOL. CCXCI. HO. 3049.

ajS

The Gentleman s Magazine,

GUIZOT,

WHEN M. Guizot came as Ambassador ExtraordiDar>^ and
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James's in
XB40 it was the first time he had set foot in England, although he
was then fift>'-three years of age, and lie suffered under the still
grcatur drawback of never having been engaged in diplomac)* before.
He made his d^but in the diplomatic service here, and he made it
at a time when the political relations between England and France
were tending to complexity ; when France liad been undergoing
a series of convulsions, and the average term for a Ministry to
remain in oflice was between seven and eight months. Guizot,
moreover, was in temperament as well as in politics totally opposed
to the brilliant chief at the English Foreign Office, and he was the
minister of a King whom Lord Palmerston distrusted and disliked
for his faults of character as much as for his policy. If Louis
Philippe had been "a very straightforward, scrupulous, and high-
minded man," wrote Lord Palmerston to Earl Granville, "he would
not now be sitting on the French throne."

As a set-off against this Guizot had made a reputation for
statesmanship in his own country. He was respected and welcomed
by Liberals and Conservatives in England as pacific in his dealings ;
he was a man of letters who had won an honourable place ; and,
lastly, he was a Protestant, and so recommended himself to the more
thoroughly English portion of society. Guizot was the first
Protestant Ambassador whom France had sent us since the days
of the Stuarts. He was sometimes called the French Puritan.

Guizot lived through the most eventful periods of modem
France. He was bom in 17S7 amid the multerings of the Revolu-
tion. Guizot's parents were married by a proscribed Protestant pastor,
and his birth was never legally registered. His father, who was
an advocate, used his talent for public speaking in the interests of the
persecuted Protestants, and became a marked man. After living for
several weeks in danger of his life he was at last arrested, unwillingly
enough, by a gendarme who knew and respected him. '* Shall
I let you escape?" said the roan. "Are you mauicd?" replied

Guixoi,

*59

IkU GoiioL " Ves, I bave two chBdrtn." ** And lo hane I," replied
the prisoner, *' bat you would hare to piy for me ; let us go on."
They went on, snd M. Gaucot died oo the sc&ffold a fcv days later.

At this txine FiangoiSi the future statesman, who was the elder of
the tvo children, was six and a half years old, arkd alwaj-s i»^esenrcd
the recollection of going to see his &thcr in prison, or what was
euphemisticaUy cilled (be House of Justice^ His ^routh was 9^tt&
at Geneva, whither Madame Guirot retired in 17^ for the sake
of her children's education. AAer her hosband's tragic death she
derated hcisclf entirely to her two sons. They were obliged to live
very frugally, and Madame Gui/ot did most of the household
worit with her own hands. But she managed to secure the best
mastCfs for the boys, and al*-ays found time to be present at their
lessons. She was so entirely one with her children that in the
screre winters, when the liitic boys' hands became sore and stiff with
chilblains, she would write their exercises for them from their
dicution. Besides the regular course of study she had tliem taught to
ride and to swim, and not content with giving them a good scholastic
education, she insisted on their learning a trade. Franjois worlted 1
at carpentering, and became a skilful joiner. So the early years wci^
9pefil in simple, studious fashion under the eye of the stronir
helpful mother who, for her childrcn*s sake, battled against tlm
overwhelming horror and grief of the Reign of Tenor.

Guizot is described as a coatcroplatire boy, fond of study
and rctiremenL It was difficult to arouse him when absorbed
fn thoughts, and his companions used ineffectually to („
; of practical jokes. The seriousness of his mind and the
trend of his chamcicr are evidenced in the following extracts from a
letter to his mother when he was nineteen ; —

" MonU Uw is the law to which I would refer ev-ery question.
I look upon every temptation to step aside as a danger, and I
disregard every path which does not lead me back to the right
road. I have one quality wluch is, perhaps, favourable to mv
principles, although it is often reviled by the world-obsHnacy
I may be wrong, but whenever I think that I am right the whole
universe has no influence upon my opinions."

In 1805. when he was eighteen, the little household at Geneva
was broken up. Madame Guizot and the younger boy went to
Ntmcs to Madame Guizofs parents, and Francois was sent to Paris'
10 read law. Being a conscientious, dutiful son, he worked
diligently at his legal studies, but his heart was in literature
Confident of his own ability, he writes to his mother in 1806 :—

in his own
the effect

26o

The Gentknian s Magazine.

" I do not know how I chanced to open the drawer to which I had
banished the first attempts of my pen. I was not able to resist the
temptation of reading some of them, and it made me sad to do so.
I possess talents, but I cannot yield to their impulse. I cannot
devote my youth to studying the art of writing, and all that apper-
tains to it, so as to enable me in my riper years togive free expression
to my ideas. I shall never be able to recover the time which I might
have spent with so mucli satisfaction ; it will never come back.
Must I then be in every way thwarted by circumstances? 1 was
intended by nature for a distinguished man of letters ; I am some-
times devoured with the longing to write, if it were only for myself.
... I feel drawn towards literature and poetry by a charm which
makes me miserable."

For about three years he struggled manfuUy with bis inclinations,
for Madame Guizot had no opinion of literature as a profession ; but
at length, by the intervention of a mutual friend, she was persuaded to
let her son go his own way, and in 1808 he renounced the law and
gave his whole time to letters. He seems to have been fortunate in
obtaining remunerative work, for at twenty-two we find him with a
variety of " orders." He is writing articles for the Manure which
meet with general satisfaction, translating a book of travel, writing
notes on Gibbon, and compiling a dictionary of synonyms. VVhUc
he was busied in this way he aime into contact with Mdlle. Pauline de
Meulan, who was writing for the PublUhU, a newspaper cslabhshed
by M. Suard, Permanent Secretary of the French Academy, whose
acquaintance Guizot had already made. Mdllc. de Meulan belonged
to an exiled aristocratic family. Her liierary gift remained hidden
for some time, but blossomed forth under the impulse of necessity.
While she was writing for the Pu&iuiste a fresh domestic misfortune
overtook her, and anxiety and illness prevented her from accomplish-
ing her usual task. Guizot hearing of this undertook to write the
required articles, and worked for her without her knowledge.
Gradually the acquaintance ripened into intimacy, and in 1S12 they
were married. It was just after the marriage that Guizot was made
Professor of Literature. Henceforth it was a joint literary life.
\V'hile the husband was writing political pamphlets, the wife was
writing novelettes, and they were planning work in common. She
writes : —

"As you know, I wanted to find something which would give us
a settled eniployment and prove the foundation of a dificrunl sort of
life than ours U now. ... Do not be afraid of setting me to work»
dearest . . . What I should much prefer would be some book in

Cuizot. 261

iriiidil should undertake the dnsd^eiy, and to which you would give
ooloor and bveftdth."

The difficulties which beset vires and mothers in their liteiaty
woik are shadowed forth in the following lines from Madame Guizot
to her husband : —

** I am wdl, only rather sleepy in consequence of a detestable
oi^iit. Ifthere were no writing to be done I should have nothing to
complain of, but it is a great misfortune for me that I cannot make
Uteraiy woik agree with the rest of my life. If it were possible for
me to give myself entirely up to it by devoting all my time and
thou^ to it, as you when you want to write well, I should write well
too. I still have the power of so d<Hng but I have not that (^pass-
ing continually from one life to another, from the multitude of
feelii^ cares, and thoughts connected with other lives to those con-
ceptions which I alone can originate. When I am not writing I am
jvtt, or I belong to my child ; I think of what you are doing, of what I
have to do for my boy. In order to write I must be myself only,
and I have no time for such transitions. I exhaust mj^f, and I
have no power left fcv anything."

Guizot was not long to remain in the calm seclusion of his study.
Politics interested him more and more, and in 1814 he gave up his
studies and his teaching for the post of Secretary to the Minister of
the Interior. Talleyrand was then serving Louis XVIII., and though
their paths lay apart Guizot must have had opportunities of
learning som^bing of the leading statesman and diplomatist of the
times, whose character he summed up in after years with a good deal
of discernment At the Home Office, as we should call it, Guizot
remained until forced back into retirement with the Hundred Days.
He served again under the Bourbons, becoming a ConseilUr d'£tatj
until they were driven from the throne, and he then took office under
Louis Philippe.

When in company with the other advisers of Charles X. he was
dismissed, and retired to the house called Maisonnette, near Meulan,
lent him by Madame de Condorcet, he wrote : —

"At that time I was strongly attached, and have ever since
remained so, to public life. Nevertheless I have never quitted it
without experiencing a feeling of satisfaction mixed with my regret,
as that of a man who throws off a burden which he willingly sustained,
or who passes from a warm and exciting atmosphere into a light and
refreshing temperature."

The life at Meulan suited him. He writes: —

" I sometimes went to Paris on affairs of business. I find in a

262

The Geniieman's Magazine.

letter which I wrote to Madame Guizot during one of these joumcys
the impressions I experience. At the first moment I feel pleasure at
mixing again and conversing with the world, but soon grow weary of
unprofitable words. There is no repetition more tiresome than that
which bears upon popular matters. We arc eternally listening to
what we know already ; we are perpetually telling others what they
are as well acquainted with as we are: this is at the same time
insipid and agitating. In my inaction I prefer talking to the trees^
the flowers, the sun, and the wind."

He gives us a picture of his life at McuLin : —

" The house, not too small, was commodious and neatly arranged :
on either side, as you left the dining hall, were large trees and groves
of shrubs ; behind and above the mansion was a garden of moderate
extent, but intersected by walks winding up the side of the hill and
bordered by flowers. At the top of the garden was a small pavilion,
well suited for reading alone or for conversation with a single com-
panion. Beyond the enclosure, and still ascending, were voods,
fields, other country houses, and gardens scattered on different
elevations. I lived there with my wife and my son Francis, who
had just reached his fifth year. My friends often came to visit me.
In all that surrounded me there was nothing either rare or beautiful.
It was Nature with her simplest ornaments, and family life in the most
unpretending tranquillity." . . .

" In the bosom of this calm and satisfying life, public affairs, the
part I had begun to take in them, the ties of mutual opinion and
friendship I had formed, the hopes I had entertained for my country
and mj-self, continued nevertheless to occupy much of my attention.
I became anxious to declare aloud my thoughts on the new system
under which France was governed ; on what that system had become
since 1S14, and what it ought to be to keep its word and accomplish
its object"

Considering the active part which Guizot took in politics, theea.se
with which he resumed bis literary labours after each interruption, as
if he had only the moment before laid down his pen, speaks much
for the placidity of his disposition and his powers of concentration.

As a politician he worked very hard, and gave lumself up entirely
to affairs of state ; but when the moment came for retirement he could
^e^:nler his library, gather his works about him, and take up the life
of a philosopher and student Society he could always command,
even when the social fabric was shaken to its centre.

" The world in which I had long lived— the amiable, poU-^hed,
and educated society which had rallied under the Empire, and

stz

odiec br

I _

al tfatf tMK flB odoBSK jp wii^^ Tf anrivsc ir sar s^n. manaot
CBde ihe xical dbaaB «f -vokx Jbe Txssaz. -wade los asjLJwsd.
Oar tatOM^ vac durfi ^^^ £ 3e -■■^ym^ ic ^le Xknr oe
Bra^kL £«^ if 3^ DiEai^ xaz ^amsc nie gr:yS,-r sE liL
die KHHBDBBcei jnn 111 iT 13 i^ xEZK^aie wifiiiyn^ in besdf ^

WhcB G«mat cane t9 Trirhnif ss ifbe J^aaasaocr oc Lccs
FtaSplie io xftfO ke «as k die iifliTuui cf ifas cae-eer. AmrFg !^
cuuuUjMttihcmMthefatqwacnassf bsride.opeof AepiScsof
uic iCoBntBy. Aaoog pcftiti^as uraui les busk oirned we^gpi
as a flua of afaffity aad i^m^iwji^ ndpaers. asd bcdi «i boMC «sd
abroad be was irtjiriird far fas ILpjij iroA. ^VlKEfaer GtssK's
taloits were so vcfl ^fispbred as a dipkxninsi xs c^en to <;Dest3on.
That be n aooepCaUe in Es^hnd ai the time of his mxssko tbene
is no feason to doobt, for akboo^ Eag^aod had do paitkuUr likii^
for the Orleanisi prince vfaom Gnuot had belied to the Ouone, the
majority of the Eog&b people preferred stabOityto disocdcr, and aft«r
the froqamt and vkdent diods wfakfa monardiy in France had under^
gone doring tiie bst balf-centnry, there ms a good d<al to be said
for a consistent advocate of social order. AXlien entering public life
Gutzot tfaos explains his positi<Hi : —

"Bom a citizen and a Protestant I have ever been unswen-ingly
devoted to Hboty of conscience, equality in the eye of the law, and
all the acquired privil^es of social order. ... I have c\'cr prited
above aU oonsideiations just policy and liberty restrained by law. I
despaired of both under the Empire ; I hoped for them from the
Restoration.'*

It has been said of Guizot by an American writer that " as a
diplomatist he was not sufficiently shrewd for the sharp practice of
those revolutionary times." That may well have been so ; but con-
sidering with whom Guizot had to deal, it was perhaps fortunate in
tike interests of peace that France did not send us a man of " sharp

264

The Geni/emans Magazine,

practice," who would have polished his wits against those of Lord
Palmerston, and brought about a complete rupture between the two
countries. Guizot, pitted against leading contemporary statesmen
and diplomatists, is rather like a steady hack in a racing stud. He
is not a striking figurt: In company with the unconquerable Talleyrand,
or with the astute Metternich and the far-seeing Pozzo di Borgo,
both in their several ways checks upon Napoleon, or with our own
brilliant Foreign Secrctar)', who was feared abroad as much as he
was admited at home. Guizot, though he had his detractors, was
not the nun to excite in other countries tlie feeling which inspired
the couplet : —

\lai det Teard cioeii Sohn,

So Ut er Mcbcr Palmcr&ton.

Guizot was thought in his early political life to fax'our English
laws and customs, but he prided himself on being a Frenchman of
the French. In after years he made a profound study of the history
and national life of England, and took an active part in the French
Chamber in affairs which touched England. It was his knowledge
of, and his interest in this country, acquired from books and study,
that formed one of his recommendations for the post of Ambassador.
But as a young man he had no eyes except for his own country.
He writes : —

" I have been accused of desiring to model France upon the
example of England. In 1815 my thoughts were not turned towards
England— at that time I had not seriously studied her institutions
or her history. I was entirely occupied with France, her destinies,
her civilisation, her laws, her literature, and her great men. I lived
in the heart of a society exclusively French— more deeply impregnated
with French tastes and sentiments than any other."

But if Guizot grew up with traditions exclusively French he bad
one feature in his character that gave him a kinship with Englishmen,
and that was the domestic temperament. Guizot was quite a family
man. He had as deep a respect for the sanctity of domestic life as
the most insular of our countrymen. His affection for bis motl)cr,
his wife, his children, and his delight in their society were unfeigned.
His chivalry to women was one of his most delightful characteristics.
After he had retired from public life he gathered as many relations
about him as the house at V&l Richer would accommodate. Not
content with children and grandchildren, he sheltered under his
hospitable roof an aunt of his two sons-in-law, and treated the old
lady with the utmost respect and consideration. He never (ailed to

tfaek stBdKS and aHHoeBK. ' .iBnwinng im. iasr jmaunwja^

iwiwili He cfayectt to siB vmaf '""'t'"— ~— "^"^ i ■fiii^
IficfadtA 'WmKMf «f FaoR* soe if Koae^ ^nsi !icn(
fit, Bi fas ^tfBtoCHH, Ac ^lA&BL. Sit juvLKft 3i^B9ic 3LjiQirx
"HBtoty of Kflnc* He ■ '"■■'■ "»■■ i""i^» iie j"ff^'"™'"* 3£

itO|is and <piiiriig ■iiniwi* wimufeC; jiiiir iiwpg, T^ Jizle 'scwi

and sfarafas nemiw ziBSoed naai ae'inpir. T^^ic cu -nns s
tfaetr fitthcr in Eirgfitif.,. xb£ .bskI^. jubl sm JPCBTafiiif 'Ssbdhsq
on diar piug^uiL

It was Gnor's sBer-oMnr -nc sw :3e .ijr "i ti sige:=z-
iriidnur of las IwiwiMiirf «ue ae -was xaoj 2 y-Wamr a rv
1S40 bis stamd «i£e was dead. Be -vrxss 31 pac <v^-7 azccc :=e
in^KOVcaMnKs to be ''-"'"f^ one c Vxl ? ■■■"'^i" ^^^ Xccsiaacj msK^
wlikfa hid been taken » ae peeasaaenc VrrTy -f liiia' 1 ■ > Etci
alien fiu asaj, in tocaJr '^*-^'f s=rrgca£3Q. cicj'-lLijg ypTwi
present to fab qpe. He^scsaaes c:e jcvtt^x cc ±e Jcvr. sae<5s-
posalof thesoi|ihitcgna,aep'a*r^g«':bebedttes.±ccocsg-3g3^
of adoor,cra]tbecarpeciuidcia=xvi:^zesc. I2 ttxcc hs jccren
be describes a vist be paid to the X>'^s£. of Xordarntbedand at ^oa
House:—

"All nxmd the ho^ae zre those maTrftlfss green fields of
RngbnH, coTcnd with beantifal sheep simI govs, all as dean and
irdl cared for as the giass. Yet I tike my Val Richer a thoosand
times better."

For the cdiildren's amasement he describes incidents of his life
in Errand, and tells them an anecdote of his first visit to Windsor
Castl^ which be says they mast not repeat lest it should bring him
into trouUe. One can easily imagine how the penny-a-lin« would
have enjoyed emlvcHdeiing on the following story : —

"On Wednesday evening at Windsor the Queen retired at
eleven o'clock. We stayed behind talking for half an hour. At
midnight I set out to find my own apartment, and I lose myself in
the galleries, saloons, and corridors. At last I slowly open a door,
taking it for mine, and I see a lady beginning to undress, attended
*ManvMtmtrigX9fMm^J)nfU, M. C M. Slnpnn.

266

The Gentlematis Magazine,

by her maid. I shut tbc door as fast as 1 can and b^io again to
search for my own room. I at last find someone who shows me
the way. I go to bed. The next day at dinner the Queen said to
me, laughingly, * Do you know that you entered ray room at mid-
night?' *How,Ma'am, was it your Majesty's doorthatlhalf opened?'
'Certainty.' And she began laughing again, and so did I. I told
her of my {)eri)lexity, which she liad already guessed, and I asked
whether if, like St. Simon or Sully, I should ever write my memoirs
she would allow me to mention that 1 had opened the Queen of
England's door in Windsor Castle at midnight while she was going
to bed. She gave me permission and laughed heartily."

Court life in London, though it interested him from some points
of view, he must have found dull. He thus describes his first dinner-
party and lev^e : —

" On Thursday, the 5th Marcli, I dined for the first time with the
Queen. Neither during the dinner nor in the drawing-room after-
wards was the conversation animated or interesting. I'ohtical
subjects were entirely avoided ; we sat round a circubr table before
the Queen, who was on a sofa ; two or three of her ladies were
endeavouring to work ; Prince Albert played at chess ; Lady
Palmerston and I with some effort carried on a flagging dialogue.
. . . On the day after, the 6th March, the Queen held a lev^e at
Sl James's Palace — a long and monotonous ceremony which ne\'cr-
theless inspired me with real interest. I regarded with excited esteem
the profound respcctof that vast assembly — courtiers, citixens, lawyers,
Churchmen, officers, military and naval— passing before the Queen,
the greater portion bending the knee to kiss her hand, all perfectly
solemn, sincere, and awkward."

In England M. Guizot became acquainted with the leading
aristocrats on botli sides ; but he saw more of the Wliigs ilian of the
Tories, for the reason, as he explains, that the Tories had fewer
centres in London. He became a constant visitor at Holland
House. Lord Holland's sympathies always went out towards France,
and Guizot was evidently hked by Lady Holland, who on one
occasion gave him a glimpse of her real nature which awoke his
sympathy and respecL He happened to call one evening and
found Lady Holbnd alone in the library. On his asking her if she
were often thus by herself she replied : " No, very seldom ; but when
it occurs I am not without resources ... I entreat tlic friends you
see there to descend from above [poindng to the pictures]. I know
the place that each prefcned, the armchair in which he was accus-
tomed to siL They come : I find myself again with Fox, RomQey,

Gutzot. 267

Mackintosh, Sheridan, and Homer ; they speak to me^ and I am no
longer by myself." The genuine feeling with which she spoke was
a revelation to GuizoL

At Holland House be used to meet Sydney Smith, Lord Jeffrey,
Mhd hosts of others, and had ample opportunity of gauging the
qoality of English Society. With Hallam^ the historian, Guizot
fratemised as a man of letters, and the two writers speedily became
intimate. HaUam introduced him to Bean Milman and to Macaulay,
who undertook to pilot Guizot through Westminster Abbey. On that
occasion Macauluy poured forth all his stores of learning and elo-
quence, descanting, explaining, and answering questions before each
monument to the immense delight and astonishment of Guizot, who
expresses the most sincere admiration for his brilliant companion.
The Duchess of Suthcrbnd invited him to Sutherland House to meet
Dr. Arnold. The Dowager Lady Stanley of Alderley, then Mrs.
Stanley, introduced him to Daniel O'Connell. The two Miss
Berrys received him in the evening at their delightful little riunions.
Poor old L/)rd Grey, living in the cold shade of retirement, was
warmed and cheered by friendly, unceremonious calls from the
French Ambassador, to whom he sadly commented on the number
of people who then passed his door without entering.

Guizot also dined, among others, with Elizabeth Kr>-, whom he

' had met in Paris, and with Grote, the historian, at whose house he
met some representatives of the Radical party, who were not very

.active just then. The clergy received Guizot with open arms,

rdeligbted to make much of so distinguished a Protestant. The
Bishop of London yearned to take the Ambassador in state to
St. Paul's for all the worid to see ; but Guizot declined the honour
and insisted on going quietly like one of the ordinary congregation.
No wonder that he writes : " At home and abroad, between business
and societ)', ray time was much occupied'' AVhen he adds: "I
cannot say that it was entirely filled," one feels that it was only his
insatiable thirst for occupation making itself apparent. While he
was Minister of the Interior he worked so IndclatigaLly that M
Casirair-P&ier said one day to Louis Philippe, "Sire, you will want
M. Guizot for a long time : tell him not to kill himself aU at once

m your service." He was by nature a hard worker. He says of

himself : —

" I have given myself up to public affairs as water rolls, as fiome
ascends. When 1 saw the occasion, when the event called upon me,
1 neither deliberated nor selected, I betook myself to my post."

The time which in London was not " entirely filled " Guizot

268

The Gentleman's Magazine,

employed in regrets for the companionship of his children. He was
never happy for long away from hts domestic circle, and not all the
distractions of politics and society could moke up to him for thftt
daily intimate intercourse with his own kith and kin.

The man whom Cuizot knew best among the Tories was John
Wilson Croker, who was living in Kensington Palace in rooms given
him by George IV. Guizot and Crokcr had met before in Paris, and
when Guizot came to England Croker acted as a kind of guide
to the section of society in which he mo%'ed. The friendship was
kept up by correspondence in after years.

It was at this time that Guizot saw Stratford Canning, of whom
he says: "Sir Stratford Canning had not then displayed in the
embassy to Constantinople his prevailing and indomitable energy;
but the manly frankness of his character and the tempered elevation
of his manners possessed for me from the first a charm which his
diplomatic disagreements had never effaced."

Guizot was undoubtedly a popular Ambassador in society. He
appreciated the special virtues of the English, was an agreeable
guest, and understood his duties as a host. Lady Holland wrote to
a friend in Paris : " M. Guizot pleases all the world here, including
the Queen. The public augurs well from his having placed the
celebmted Louis at the head of his kitchen : few things contribute
more to popularity in London than good cheer." The aforesaid
Louis was a cA/who had formerly been in the employ of Talleyrand,
and was brought from Paris by Guizot in his train.

It was greatly in Guizot 's favour that he understood English
history and institutions better than most Frenchmen of that time,
lie had a pretty iair command of the language, though in a titt-it-UU
with Lord Melbourne each statesman spoke in his mother tongue. But
at the Lord Mayor's banquet, given about a month after his arrival,
Guizot made a speech in English, which was loudly applauded.
He was advised by Earl Granville, who was then in Paris, to make
a similar elTort at the Royal Academy banquet a tittle later, but
reasoned rightly that French, which would have been unintelligible
in the City, would be appreciated by the guests at the Royal
Academy.

It may be interesting at this point to quote Guizot's impressions
of the English cliaraclcr : —

" When I say that the air is cold, in society as in the climate, I
do not mean to say that the English people are cold — obser>'ation
and my own experience have taught me the contrar>'. \Vc not only
meet amongst them lofty sentiments and ardent passions ; they ore

Gmizot, 26^

tlso TCiy cMpihle of pntoopu sflbctian^ viadi ooce cdcnog into
Uieir hesrts become as tender as tfaey are deeply seated What
tfaef mnt is iiwIJiwliw^ praoqil; nrnmsd ijmpailw . . . Tfarao^
awKwaiui icss oe sijiiess as loiich as uwougb pnde, i3>^ stJdoni
ednfait what they naDy fed . . . Eicn jiwibu tfaomtltu the^ are
btfle ftank and corfiil ^ di^ faare aliDGst alwavs an air of dxsdaxirfnl
and canst ic ressre vtudi fafutlies and luspues ft secret and tiiiul
discontent . . . HieEo^diareii^inattaKlnngtfaelqgbettvalne
to didr internal fife^ to tfacir jImi^ and above all to the doseness of
the cacqa^ tie ... It is certain that to eojor Eog&sfa society ve
nnist f^"*E to domgstic »iH ifijoof rrati54?**"*** latber *Hatt g^re
ouisdfcs Qp to die ^^^'*f employments of the vorid and cuncnt
erents,"

Gntsot ms sent to Eiq^and as Ambassador because a man of
more wci^ and Tnftnmrr than Manhal Sphastiani vas needed to
lepiamil France. Lord PUmerston was anxioos for a dtangt of
Amfaaaaador^ and looked Ibrvaxd to Gmsot's arrival to male things
nm more easily. He writes to Lord Gramine^ March 1 1, 1840 r—

" Sehastiani was ofl^ I bdiere, today. I hope and trust that
Gnizot win come over widiODt delay. It is of great importance that
be should do so. He is a sennble and enl^tened man, and I can-
not but think diat we may be able to say things to him and to point
ont to him consideiations which must bare we^t in his mind, and
that through him we may act upon the French Goremment ; bat then
be must come soon."

TronUes were pending in Egypt and S}-ria which threatened to
reopen the Eastern question. The quarrel between the Saltan and
his imperious vassal, Mdiemet Ali, Pasha of Egypt, was becoming
a European a&ir. Lord Palmerston, unwilling to believe in the
rottenness erf' Turkey and foreseeing a danger of French predomi
nance in ^ypt and Russian aggression in Turkey if Mehemet Ali wen.
allowed to deiy the Sultan, was all for upholding the authority of the
Porte. The year before France had agreed to treat this question
in concert with England, Austria, Russia, and Prussia, and Lord
Palmeiston now called upon Fiance to keep to the terms of that
agreonent In Guizot he hoped to find a statesman who would
ccmnder the question broadly from an international point of view,
and who would see the necessity for adhering to that doctrine which
has been the fetish of European statesmen for so many years — the
maintenance of the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. But Guizo:
personally had no faith in the vitality of Turkey or in her capacity
for decent govenmient, and represented that to reduce Mehemet Ali

270

Tkc GentUman 5 Magazine,

to submission and to give the Sultan absolute power in Egypt and
S)Tia would be to introduce a reign of anarchy. The French had
ibeir own reasons for supporting the pretensions of Mchemet Ali,
and obstinately refused to come into agreement with the other
Powers.

The conversations which Guizot had with Lord Palmerston were
long and serious, but did not do much towards a rapprochement.
According to his ovn account, Guizot used to get the better of
J^rd Palmerston in argument^ and harangued him with a great show
of reason and justice. But as a man of action the Ambassador wa^
no match for the English Foreign Secretary^ as events proved.
Lord Palmerston held to his own opinions while Ustcning to all
Ciuizot had to say, and told him very plainly that he exaggerated the
helplessness of Turkey and did not grasp the far-reaching aims
of Russia.

In the meantime Guizot and Thiers were corresponding at great
length, quibbling over the significance of a comma in one of Thiers's
communications, which Thiers at last confessed meant nothing.
Thiers was advising Guizot to be cold and reserved, which bang
translated into Lord Palmcrston's terse phraseology was *' looking as
cross as the Devil," and the " English and French politicians, having
failed to understand each other, were each at the foot of the
wall ready to jostle. *' Lord Palmerston understood the position
thoroughly, and knew that if he held firmly to the terms of the agree-
ment he could make the other three Powers go with him. Mettemich,
who was the most important factor in the Concert, he knew he
could count upon, and the only result of France's obstinacy would
be that she would be left out in the cold. France tried to com-
promise matters by extracting concessions from Mchemet Ali with
regard to the limitation of his power, and sent Count Walewski with
counsels of peace to the fiery Pasha, but these concessions did
not satisfy Lord Palmerston. He prepared for action, and presently
France saw with dismay an English fleet in possession of Beyrout
and Mehemct Ali deposed.

Guizot (ailed in the principal object of his mission. He
negotiated gome other unimportant matters successfully. It was
through him that application was made to the English Government
for permission to remove the remains of Napoleon from Su Helena
to Paris, but this being a request which lilngland was perfectly ready
to grant, and not afiecting the relations between the two countries,
did not require much negotiation. About this lime also a dispute
arose with Naples over the exportation of sulphur products, ftod the

^BESB^^B sue ^VCS^^-^tUBS'
je«L IOC D«." _

-»ii.'i'f •^ 'JTittw*' IT' £aBK9D£

was dof to &Ei »ar'.'j"riig- X<i£aiB ?^iiznce ^j!!iari.-wf . —

"M. TrWpfTfTfr''**^^*'<fMiinmM3r T**f *Fpr iexac 'smcnfiLiix^
h goenc 11 me ^ ^ot^^-xii ot scx^jl rii=xz ^Esstzmas:
de&Mcitgijmeg^xea I'lr egin:^i:t'fn'wrT=bgraJE''gmes.*

It vai not woo5s5ai 2K Gascc ad act ±.li . '. ii: bf==£r k a
dqilooBtitt. He ins nore rrfrrL** tsei »-:r*, cii *s fxif «C3c^
sored liiai «^ ki =bs o«n < ■ <iri ■ j ▼=« sac ce' £mc rse r? bia
abroad. T^Miiir^ga3d<ijT'iTareacc:=er3£:gqrTrr^3cra=Agib«s-
sador. As an Bi£nd3il be «as »i.'.r;>iKy £— s<i ^ oe pcec : ;x b£
coold be agReaUe to trose to vbocs be vas pcciacalT cp^Keed^ aad
during his niil?pwj node =a=T feSeaca vbo we^cooed hfaa a^izia
wfacnheigtnmrdasaaecSeiniS^gu Lccdf^IaestcfLUcoc^ccbin;
was kind and oordia], diowiag him hcspcalin- in his msfectnnes.

When the iwolusion of 184S broke oct the Gainx tamih- jC*
came to England in detachments. Goizot's mocher. who was then
e^^i^-six yeaxs of a^e^ airinog first with h« gTandchildrea At
<Hie moment it seemed as if the tragedy cf her husband's death vas
to be re-enacted in the person of her sotl But Guixot escaped
safely, and the refugees setded down in Pelham Crescent, Biompton.
But the strain c^ witnessing a second rerolution was too mud) for
Madame Gnizot, and she died a fortnight after her anival

After the Act of Amnesty Guizot was able to return to France,
and in July 1849 re-established himself at Val Richer. In th«
following year his two daughters married the brothers De Witt, thii
double alliance giving him great satisfaction. In the same yenr
Louis Phflippe died, and thenceforth Guizot took no acli\'e p»it in
politics, although he followed the course of events with the keenest
interest In 1855 he paid a visit to England on the anntveraary of
Louis Philippe's death, and again in 1858, when he stayed with I^rtt
Aberdeen, with whom he had always been on parttcuUrly good tcriiii.
But his life was spent chiefly at Val Richer with hit family, the

272

The Gentkmans Magazine.

routine being varied by visits to Paris. His English friends who had
the privilege of being entertained I^ him at his Normandy home
speak of him with admiration as a host. Mrs. Simpson in her
interesting volume of reminiscences' describes a visit she paid to
Val Richer in i860 with her fatlier, Mr. Nassau Senior. Guizot,
she said, lived " in patriarchal fashion^ surrounded by his children and
grandchildren, and waited upon by his old senants and their
descendants."

Among other literary work he began to write his memoirs in
1857, and liad them published in his lifetime, for the excellent reason
which he gives in his opening chapter: "I publish my memoirs
while I am still here to answer for what I write."

He always retained the liveliest interest in English affairs. Mr.
Nassau Senior, who saw a good deal of him in Paris, describes how
he would talk of nothing but English politics when he went to call
on him one day in the spring of 1853. On one occasion h« gave
Mr. Senior his opinion of the EngUsh as he found them in society.
He said : '* I am going to give the English some praise and a little
blame. No people have more of the elements of good company,
more knowledge, or imagination, or taste, or humour, or wit. But
they are too reserved or too indolent to make the best use of them :
they want free trade in ideas, and often substitute words for them.
From time to time I have Uved in an English country neighliourhood ;
in every house I ate the same dinner and heard the same conversatioru" *

When the Franco- Prussian War broke out Guizot was shocked
and distressed beyond measure, and asks in a Icttur: "Which of the
two Governments and nations Is the most entirely deficient in good
sense and morality ? In truth 1 should find it hard to say." The
disasters that followed struck him to the heart, and he fell ill, but
recovered sufficiently to resume his writing. He was much saddened
by family bereavements and the death of many friends, but these
losses only made him cling the closer to those who were left. He
never grew moody or sohtary in his habits. When very busy with
work he would every now and then leave his study and seek out one
of his daughters saying, "1 have come for a little talk," and after
chatting pleasantly for awhile would return (refreshed to his labours.
He completed the fourth volume of his " History of France " in the
summer of 1874. This was his last effort ; after that be succumbed
to liis increasing infirmities, and died peacefully in tbc same year at
the age of eighty-seven.

CEORCIANA HriX.

Mtmy Utmmitt */ Maty Peefit,

' Cemftrtatimts. Masan Scxiiur.

273

CASTAIV^YS, AND THEIR
INFLUENCE ON POPULATION.

NAAHGATION naturally Iiad its origin on the classic waters of
the Mediterranean, where the conditions are especially favour-
able for coastal excursions ; and probably the earliest efforts of man-
kind to rule the waves were due as much to accident as to design.
Horace, in that delightful ode addressed to the tiny craft about to
hconvcy Virgil to the sunny shores of the Grecian Isles, declaimed
'against the man who first ventured to woo fickle fortune in a fragile
barque upon the stormy sea. The mariner's compass was then
unknown, the ships were sorry specimens of the naval architect's art,
, the methods of navigation had little to commend them, and the
ay toilers of those narrow waters never willingly lost sight of the
*land. Homer, in the "Odyssey," reveals the andent mariners ten-
tatively and loilfuUy following the coast, or stolidly steering by the
scintillating stars on a clear night Invariably they hailed with
r unfeigned thankfulness the rosy-fingered dawn. Occasionally, how-
^evcr, the fates were unkind, and compelled them seaward, in spite of
themselves, to learn that the sea but joins the nations it divides.

The Trojan war was the greatest achievement of the Heroic age ;

and the varied experience of the Heroes will serve to demonstrate the

truth of the contention that accident waa quite an important factor

in determining the earliest of voyages. Returning exultant from the

reduction of Troy, the Grecian fleets were widely scattered by a

I savage storm that threatened dire destruction to all under its iii-

^ fluence. inasmuch as the Homeric ship was but an open boat fitted

with one mast, decked over only at either end, and utterly unsuitable

,,i6r striving successfully against the combined forces of Aeolus and

' Neptune. Remote from the land, the friendly pole-star hidden from

view by the angry clouds, the condition of the small craft careering

^before the gale was eminently critical. Such as survived the rude

Iboffeting by wind and by sea were wrecked on unknown shores.

fXTlysses, the bravest of the brave, wandered wearily through many an

unexplored region for more than a decade, quite unable to regain his

VOL. ccxci. NO, 3049* i;

274

Tke Gentleman's Magazitu.

native land even if he had known its geographical posiiion. Aeneas,
son of Anchiscs and Venus, reached the coast of Libya where Dido
reigned, if we may believe Virgil's pleasant passages. The unhappy
queen received the wanderer with affection, only to find that her
charms proved less potent than his nostalgia. In historic times we
have Sl Paul driven out of his course by a storm in a complaining
craft, crowded with two hundred and seventy-six despairing persons,
and eventually arriving at Malta, or, as some assert, an island on the
coast of Dalmatia in the Adriatic. In every instance the tempest*
tossed travellers doubtless shuddered at the stormy sea, but were
thrust Ihilhcr as cxpiotcrs by circumstances over which they lud not
the least control

The liardy Norsemen, whose home of yore was ever on the foam-
ing sea, quite accidentally discovered North America long before
Christopher Columbus was bom. Sailing slowly from headland to
headland of Norway's rocky and indented shores, in clumsy craft that
were quite unmanageable unless the wind was fair and moderate, the
virile Vikings Iiad precedence forced upon them. Gales drove them
wcstwardover an unknown sea until their straining eyes were gladdened
by the sight of what is now known as Iceland. There, like Aeneas
and his followers, in a far fairer land, they sought the green sward to
rest their wearied limbs. There they foimded a colony ! Once dis-
covered, communication was maintained despite Uie very vague ideas
of these intrepid sea-rovers with respect to navigation, even though
the heavenly bodies tn the celestial concave invited every confidence.
On one occasion they sailed past Iceland, probably during foggy
weather, and arrived, after many searchings of heart, at Greenland.
Westward the star of empire was wending its way by accident rather
than by design. Eric the Red founded a colony there xn 986 ; and,
a few years later, his son Leif sailed southwards, as far as the forty-
first parallel of north latitude, in order to test the reports of his
countrymen who had been driven thither by storms and painfully
worked their way back to Greenland. After the naanner of his race
Leif founded a colony somewhere lietwecn the positions now occu-
pied by Boston and New York, and allotted to it a name which may
be freely translated as Vincland, Communication between Norway
and North America was maintained for about three centuries \ )'et
the very existence of the American Continent appears to have
become legendary when Columbus set out to win a way to Far
Cathay. The Shellands, Iceland, and Greenland, were but stepping-
Btones for the Norse rovers, driven westward from their native land
in blissful ignorance of what the fates had in store for ihcm. A

Casimwat^ mad thnr Imfianta em Pi^^mJktt^m. 375

cfaaahej V**^'**' emti tfaae x ssiS tcsscZ vxs &7rea eat torn

frOBI IlBUIH^ SB^ XSff ft dcnOQS OCR 9B0SSQC ^*^**-**'. CftSltXOOf

readied dtfaaViE^na or Ffanifa. There is sSso a stocr afloat that Sir
Waber BaTfTg*' famid tbe natzies of TiiglEua ^leifcif^ Critic (jone
flnentlj ^ ^mA Ais sost be aoc^ited with eicij luuif..

KeoeDt apeneoces go 6r to sappoit the mficrcDce dint csstavns
have often beea tihe pioneea of geogiaphical dacoray. In zS&S^
tbe Olftiwii'ai, a snuD aaft of t«entr-ooe toos^ actoaUf daftcd
from S*****""** to Nonrsf vhfa OD^f a voman on boaid. Tlie Tessd
tnded among the acattoed gnxxp of islands, manned bracxrwof
tbxe^ vfaoh on diis oocasioo, sooght the solid shme predpitatelj

* >*<iMt*ij she itianded near Lenrv^ Whether the trio focgot

die woman pasaenger, <k jg"**^ *^ ^(^ ™ * zecUess rush for the
boat, is not quite dear. Soon the Coimmh'iit floated off the bank,
and die old lady fbmid hersdf monardi of all she sonreyed, with
eroy piospect of a watery gnrei An easterly gale drore die gallant
litde vernd wdl to die westward ontil Iceland was apparently in
ri^t. Then the wind shifted to the westward, and the CoArinfcW
drifted towards Nonray. She deared the dangerons reefe of Vigero
Fjord in a marreUoos manner, threading channels which eroke tbe
ntmost ddn of a local pilot to avoid die merdiant-marring rocks,
and e?entnally readied the shore. The fisher-folk happened to sight
the stianded vessd ; and, at great risk, got the famished and half-
froaen castaway safely to land. In Febmary, 1893, ^ hundred and
fifty miles north-west of Mayo, Cape Verde Islands, the Finland
barqoe Im^f Captain Bystrom, e^ted a timely rescue from a
felucca, the IJtn's Amigos^ which had sailed from Santiago, C.V., for
Mayo, had been driven from the land by a gale, and was quite
unable to get back again, being destitute of a mariner's compass and
a navigator. These castaways consisted of a crew of four, and six
ptssengeis (including two girls), not one of whom had tasted water
or food for a week. Captain Bystrom kindly received them on
board his barque ; left the felucca to her fate ; ministered to every
want of tbe castaways, and landed them at Martinique, a fortnight
later, none the worse for so perilous a passage. In July, 1895, ^^^^
hundred miles north of Bermuda, the British steamer BtHardtn fell
in with a small sloop of four tons, the Rosie^ which had been blown
to sea while attempting to sail from one island to another of the
"vexed Bermoothes." On board this tiny craft were Joseph
Dioniso, his wife, and two children, who had been a week without
either food or water. The master of the steamer supplied them
with the necessaries of life, gave them the course to steer for New

376

Tlie GentUnian 5 Magazine,

York, and they arrived there witliout further mishap in a few days.
This castaway family went to pay a visit to a next door neighbour.
IS it were, remained on llie stormy sea suffering severely for more
than a month, travelled over many a weary league in their curious
craft, and eventually reached a huge city of which thej' knew nothing
except by repute. Hence it b to be inferred that the Viking cast-
aways did not accomplish anything more man'ellous than the weak
woman and the frightened family above referred to, compelled by
boisterous breezes to become ocean explorers against their will.
Similar instances of castaways* experiences in the Atlantic are not
far to seek.

The enormous number of insignificant tslcls, strewn lavishly all
over the Pacific Ocean, from tropic to tropic, afford very favourable
conditions for persons carried out to sea in open boats. Doubtless
many of the pretty Pacific pinnacles were peopled, in the first
instance, by castaways from neighbouring islets, or from the con*
tinent of Asia, The aborigines of New Zealand, the Maoris, as they
are termed, hold fast to a tradition that, in the dim and distant past,
their ancestors came in capacious canoes from a place knotrn to
them as Hawaiki, which is supposed to be identical wiili the modem
Hawaii of the Sandwich Islands. Even the names of the cumber-
some canoes have been piously preserved and handed down from
father to son through the ages. Among them arc the AoUa ; the
Arawa, which reached the land first, having on board the principal
idols; the Tainui, and others of less renown. Some palatial passenger
steamsliips belonging to the Shaw, Savill, and Albion Company,
trading between London and New Zealand, are actually named after
the legendary canoes of the old-time Maoris, If only those un-
tutored savages could revisit the scenes of their former exploits from
the shades, perhaps the most marvellous creations of modem men
would appear to their eyes to be those stately steamsliips moving
swiftly through the water without oars and without sails— «<• remis
nee veils, as the Institute of Marine Engineers expresses iL The
natives of the Pacific islets are dauntless seamen, and make voyages
of very many miles in quaint conceits of outrigger boats, fastened
together solely with small cord made from the husks of cocoa-nuUt.
Kotzebue, the famous Russian mivigator, in the opening years of
the nineteenth century, picked up some natives of the CaroUne Islands
who were two hundred miles from their homes, having been im-
pelled seaward in a canoe and unable to return. Captain Beechy,
R.N., fell in with tired Tahittans some six hundred miles away from
their native land, driven seaward by a careering c)dooc Asolititry

Castau^aySf and ikiir Influ$nc^ on Population, s;;

njuD, similarly imperiUed, succeeded in reaching the Friendly
UUnds after a risky run of four hundred miles. The American ship
/csfph Spinney, while crossing the Pacific Ocean, with the nearest
dry land distant at least two hundred miles, picked up an old chief
and five other despairing natives of the Pellcw Islands adrift on a
lofujy sea in an open boat Thc>' had set sail intent on pa)ing a
call cm some friends of a neighbouring islet, had to run before a
gale, and were then enduring the eighteenth day of compulsory
stanration. Temporarily insane, consequent on thirst and himger,
they had just arrived at an agreement to slay the son of the chief, a
youth of sixteen summers, in order thai his body should provide
sustenance for his famished fellows. Fortunately they were spared
this last resource of suffering humanity, inasmuch as their every
want was satisfied on board the Joseph Spinney. Notwithstanding
kind nursing and good food, the chief and one man died. The
stuvivors were taken to Japan, whither the rescuing vessel was
bound.

Pitcairn Island was uninhabited when discovered in 1767.
Twenty-two years after, however, nine of the mutineers from the
Bounty, together with four men and eleven women of Otaheite,
founded a settlement there far from civilisation. Meanwhile Captain
Bligh and his faithful few managed to reach Timor after covering a
distance of twelve hundred leagues, in open boats, with black care
behind the helmsman all the way. The castaways on Pitcaim
Island, or rather their descendants, remained undiscovered by the
outside world for nearly a quarter of a century. Then the news leaked
out Qiat an American whaleship, under CapUiin Folgcr, had visited
the island in 1808. He had expected to find that the inhabitants of
this solitary spot were savages, perhaps cannibals, and was most
agreeably surprised by a visit from civilised residents who spoke
English fluently. In 1814, the year af^er Captain Folger's dis-
closure, the island was visited by two British frigates, ihe Briton and
the Tagus^ quite by accident. Sir Thomas Staircs, commanding the
Briton, reported his curious find to the Admiralty, and awarded
great praise to the "venerable old man, John Adams," the only
surviving Englishman of the Bounty mutineers, who landed 00
Pitcaim Island flushed with their successful revolt against tl'.c
authority of Captain Bligh. The varied experience of that stolid
.Scotch sailor, Alexander Selkirk, which served r>anicl Defoe as the
foundation on which to build his inimitable and imperishable
•* Robinson Crusoe," was all obtained on Juan Femandes, an island
of the South Pacific, where he was for some time a castaway. " Was

278

The Gentleman's Ma^acine,

iherc anything written by mere man," said Dr. Johnson, " that was
wished longer by its readers, excepting ' Don Quixote,' ' Robiruon
Crusoe,' and the • Pilgrim's Progress * ? "

In 1832 a Chinese junk driftedlright across the Pacific Ocean to
Vancouver Island, and another to the Sandwich Islands, A third,
bound from the Loo Choo Islands to Shanghai, was wandering for ten
tiresome moons, as the pigtailcd mariners poetically expressed the
devious drift, and eventually reached Baker's Island, a small guano
deposit. Seven of her nine men bad succumbed to slow starvation
and dire despair. All three of^ these junks were of the type common
to the China coast for many a century. Each had a staring eye
painted in a prominent position on the bow, so that she might (ind a
pleasant path across the trackless main ; for, in the broken English
of the almond-eyed Celestial, ' No eye, no see, no sabbee." Such
instances of vessels driven seaward by unfavourable gales, despite the
efforts of their crews, who could not return owing to ignorance of
navigation, must be well weighed when endeavouring to determine
the probable origin of the dwellers on the infinite number of islets
dotted all over the Pacific Ocean.

Quite recently several;ship3' crews have suffered severely as cast-
aways on uninhabited islands. The barque IVandering Afimtrel
stranded on Midway Island, and all hands had to eke out a
precarious existence there for'six months. Then the mate, a sailor,
and a young Chinaman, left in an open boat to seek succour at the
Sandwich Islands. These three were never heard of e^aiu. Eight
more months of leaden-footed hours passed away down the avenue
of time ; the ship bad been given up as totally lost with every soul
on board, and the underwriters had long since paid her insurance,
when the schooner Noma happened to observe tlic castaways'
signals, and took them to Honolulu. Five men had died on the
island during the weary wait of fourteen months ; but the captain's
wife and four young cliUdrcn were among the sur>ivors. Au
American barque, the Te^vhesbtny L. Sweat, on her way from
Australia to China, was wrecked on one of the CaroUne Groupdurif^
a hurricane. Her cosmopolitan crew lived there among the savages
for over seven months, receiving the moral support and active
assistance of an English castaway, one Charles Irons, who had been
four years a resident, had t&kcxi to himself seven wives, and attained
to high rank in the chiePs court Tirtd of involuntary exile, these
sad seafarers at length bade farewell to their primitive hosts, and
sailed away in boats and canoes until picked up by the barque
JUfirmiNf S/ar, after a perilous passage of ovts one thousand nilci,

CastawaySi and their Infiu€*u€ on Population. 279

and carried to Honolulu. An iron British barque, the Henry Jam^t
proceeding from Australia to California, struck on a coral reef near
Palmyra Island, and became a wreck. Her crew and passengers
sought safety on this lonely place. Fearing that the two ladies and
the four little children would perish if help were long delayed, the
chief officer, Donald Macdonald, volunteered, with four sailors, to set
out for Samoa in an open boat in order to obtain assistance. On
Palmyra Island tliere were found the ruiiis of six huts, evidently due
to the labours of prc\ious castaways j cocoa-nuts, eels, birds, eggs,
land-crabs, and pepper-grass were plentiful, and sufficient water was
found to satisfy the demand. Illegible inscriptions were noticed, cut
deep into some of tlie trees, but defaced by the relentless hand of
time. With the exception of leeches, which proved painfully
rmvenous after rain, and dysentery, all went well on the island until
the American steamship Mariposa came and rescued the castaways,
\xi compliance with the retiuest of the dauntless volunteers who had
reached their objective point after a terrible trip of thirteen hundred
mites, which occupied nineteen days. One volunteer had sucked
his own blood to quench a maddening thirst, others had eaten their
boots and the telescope cover, and all five had to be carried ashore
on arrival at Samoa owing to extreme weakness.

In July, 1875, the sailing ship, Stralhmore^ of Dundee, struck on
an outlying reef of the Crozet Islands, while on the passage from
London to New Zealand, with eager hearts and willing hands for the
" new and happy land." Loss of life occurred, and the sorrowftil
survivors passed a Robinson Crusoe existence on a desolate island,
under an inclement sky, for nearly seven months. Nine years ago,
the iron barque Comjxtdre caught fire in mid-ocean, and was after-
wards purposely put on shore ot Auckland Isbnd in order to save
the lives of all hands. There the castaways remained for over one
hundred days. Among them was an apprentice, E. Roberts,
apparently born 10 be drowned, although not widiout a serious
struggle. After reaching England again he was appointed to a
veaid, which was run down in the Channel a few days from home,
and be happened to be among the seven saved- The next voyage
he accomplished without mishap ; but, on the fourth voyage, the
vessel was lost on Tristan d'Acunha, and the unfortunate Roberts
was drowned with two of the crew. In 1898, H.M.S. Thntsh took
off some castaways from Tristan d'Acunha, escaped from the
wrecked ship GUnhuntiy^ who had been guests of the poor islanders
for five months.

Consequent on several shipwrecks on \!tvt \s\a.Ti'i\ ^V^tXtwJt

280

The GeniiemavLS Magazine.

Southern Ocean, between t!ie meridian of ihc Cape of Good Hope
and Australia, there have been established depots of food and
clothing for castaways on several of the most important of those
isolated dangers to navigation. On Hog Island, Crozet Group, the
depdt is a hut near the landing-place. There the French war-vcssd
JUi Mcurihe left a ton of preserved beef, half a ton of biscuit, three-
quarters of a hundredweight of sardines in oil, twenty blankets,
fifteen pairs of shoes and trousers, all carefully packed ; together
with two spears, two hatcliets, and some cooking utensils. At
Possession Island the depots are also huts, in which were deposited,,
by the British warship Comus, a sufficiency of provisions to last fifty
people for fifty days ; together with stockings, shoes, and jerseys.
On the islands of Amsterdam, St. Paul, and Kerguelen, the French
u-ar-vessel Eure established depots containing necessaries of all
kinds for castaways, no matter wliat their nationality might be. At
Amsterdam Island, in a large cavern on a hill-side, there are avail-
able, for castaways, supplies of beef, biscuit, shirts, underclothes,
blankets, and some matches enclosed in a metal bo.x hermetically
scaled There are also, in the same cave, several cots, a cooking pot,
and dry wood, left by fishermen who occasionally visit the island.
Cabbage and celery, fish and lobsters abound. At St. Paul's Island
the dep6i is in a rough stone hut surmounted by a thatched roof.
Food and clothing in thirteen barrels are in evidence there. At
Kerguelen Island the depot is in a cave, indicated Tjy a twelve-foot
high cairn, and consists of a like quantity of food and clothing.
Each of these three depots is clearly marked out by a board bearing
the following legend : — " France. Vivres, V6temcnts pour naufiBge&
Ettre^ Janvier, 1893."

Nearer New Zealand there are also depots for castaways on
several of the islands. At Kermadec Islands there are two, each in
a small iron shed fitted with spouting and a tank to catch fresh water.
Food, medicine, tools, and clothing, are plentifully present. At the
Snares Islands and the Antipodes Islands the dq)Uts are in huts.
On the principal islands of the Auckland Group are three depdts,
one in a square wooden house ; and a lifeboat has been placed on
each of the three islands, Enderby, Adams, and Rose. There is
also a dep6t at Campbell Island. All are indicated by prominent
finger-posts. A Government steamer visits Kermadec Islands once
a year, and the Snares, Bounty, Antipodes, Auckland, and Camp-
bell Islands twice a year, for the purpose of rescuing any castaways^
•nd replacing such stores as may have become unfit for issue.

SimiUfly satisfactory dcpou are estab^hcdun Vancouver Island,

Ctuiaways, and ihtir Influence o% Pcpulaiiom, 281

.at Gqie Bale Ligjbtlioase, and Cannanal Ughthoas& Nodce-
boatds are erected around die coast, setting foctfa infionnation far
cutaways irn>fi.liiig Ibe directioo and tbe disunrr of the nearest
depdl^ and also <tf the nearest Indian vilbge where assistanoe can be
obtained. In the accredited GorcnuDent pabUcations isaied to
manoen by the sevoal maxitinie natioas there are gi?en detailed
desa^ptkns of every snch reAige far castaways^ and its exact
geugtaphinal position.

Sailix% ships cibea come to grief when Tentorii^ dirough Torres
Strain diat naiiow waterw^ dividing Aostrdia from New Gainea,
where coral reeb abound ; and steps were taken by the uithorities
to enme both the necessaries of life and shelter to the castaway
crews. At Booby Island, not iax from Cape York, so long ago as
1857, H.1C.S. Torch left a small sapfdy of perishable articles, sadi
as tea, sugar, and tobacco; casks of bee^ po^ and bread were
carefoUy stowed away in a cave dearly indicated by a flagstaff; and
a receptacle arranged with shdves and drawers containii^ litHary
bo(^ pens, ink, writing-paper, and a letter-bag for the Postmaster*
General, Sydney, the whole being covered with a tarpaulin mazked
" Post OflSce." Passing ships would heave-to, and send a boat on
shore to replenish the small stores ; make a record in a book left f<»:
the particular purpose, and take away any letters, to deliver them at
the next port

Sufficient has been written to indicate the influence that casta-
ways have exercised on the peopling of islands, and therefore on the
lawignage spoken ; as also the earnest endeavours made of recent
years, both by England and by France, to ensure that timely succour
shall be available always for castaways on isolated islands of the lone
Southern Ocean and elsewhere.

WILLIAM ALUNGBAM.

sSi

Ttte Gtntiefiians Magazine,

ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS
IN JAPAN.

IT is only lhirty-(hree years since, in 1868, Japan passed
through a very thorough, though peaceful, revolution, known
as the "Meiji," or "the era of illustrious rule." That was in a
measure the result of the opening of the country to foreign nations;
but it was really the crisis and consummation of a long period of
silent preparation. One of the most important of the changes which
followed in its train was the oi^anisation of a complete system of
education, reaching from the University downwards to the remotest
village schools.

Wc propose to offer our readers a description of some of the
chief features of the primary as well as of the higher schools, as
far as we have been able to ascertain them from the Reports of the
Japanese Department and from information supplic*d in this country
by natives or English Missionaries.

Education, we are told, attained a very high In-cl in ancient
times, declined during what are lo us the Middle Ages, and has since
revived and reached its present efficiency under the existing Govem-
menl. Before the Revolution the higher learning was confined to
the Chinese and Japanese classics, and elementary education did
not extend beyond the three R's. In X867 a Provisional Board was
established at Kyoto, and some higher schools, already formed at
Nagasaki, Osaka, and other towns, were reopened on a better
system, and under more competent men, invited from various
districts to act as professors. In the following year the " Shockoko,"
or University, became the central authority; but in iS7ian Education
Department was constituted in its place to control all scholastic
matters. A code was soon afterwards enacted. Inspectors and other
school officers were appointed. Normal training colleges were
opened, and gradually the present system was evolved, which has
since been extending itself more and more widely through the
Empire. At first some of these meaaurcs proved abortive through
lack of funds. Seven normal colleges, for instance, founded in the
provinces, besides one at Tokio, and seven *' foreign language
jciiools^" iiad to bo dosed for thai reason. But of late yean the

EUtittntary Schools in Japan*

country bis awakened more fally to its obligations in the matter and

great advances have been made. Fifty-three thousand primary

schools were at first proposed, and we have reason to believe that

more than half that number have been built and are now actively at

fWorlL A few years since it was stated that they had upwards of four

millions of scholars, of whom quite one-fourth were girls. Training

colleges for teachers have been also established in most parts of the

|Country, besides middle and hij^hcr grade schools. The Japanese,

rlikc ourselves, have had many revised and re-re^'ised codes, for they

have been steadily feeling their vtay towards the standards maintained

in European countries and in the United States. Such in general

seems to be the position. Pursuing our inquiry into particulars, wc

irill first notice what has been done in the more elementary schools.

Although in 1880 education was made compulsory for all children

between the ages of six and fourteen, school fees are usually charged.

These are 50 sen, or about 2^. per month per child, but only half

that sum is required from poor parents who cannot afford the whole.

Moreover, when there are more than two or three of school age

in a family a further reduction is made. The elemental^- course,

.According to the strict letter of the law, should extend over eight

Pycars. Still, a simpler three years' course is allowed in districts where,

ftin account of the poverty of the inhabitants, the complete one

cannot be supplied. This is restricted to reading, writing, com-

position and arithmetic, the last subject occupying at least half the

time. The full clemenlaiy course is divided into two grades, the

lower for children from six to nine years of age, the higher for

those from ten to thirteen inclusive. The lower grade comprises

spelling, reading, writing, arithmetic, according to European methods,

morals, conversation, hygiene, geography, grammar and elementary

science. The higher gmde embraces also writing in Chinese

characters, correspondence, drawing, natural history, geometry,

chemistry, and physiology. Such, at any rate, are the syllabuses

■prescribed by the Code. How far all these subjects arc thoroughly

'worked out we are not in a position to say. " Multa," not " Multum,"

would seem to be the motto of these educationists, and one cannot

but fear lest quality be often sacrificed to quantity, unless the children

of the poorer classes in Japan arc more Tecepti\-e and intelligent

than our own. The attempt, however, to do so much is highly

creditable to this highly gifted and energetic race, and will lend to

raise it more and more in the scale of civihscd nations. Still, it

should be added that a certain margin of discretion is left to the

^3ocal authorities in omitting some of these subjects, when drcum-

Kitaoces render it deiiirable. There are also schools for infants fiom

284

The GenlUmans Magazim.

Ihrcc to six years of age, where ihe Kindergarten system has been
partially adopted. In these, as in our own, amusing occupations,
which tend to train the eye and hand, are provided, such as stick-laying,
building with bricks, rings, pins, &c. Simple practical Instruction
is giren the children, "in order," it is said, "to develop bodily
strength, to facilitate home education, and to prepare them for the
elementary schools."

But the Japanese are not content with establishing primary
schools. They have for many j*ears also paid much attention to
higher education. Their middle schools, whose course extends
over five years, are designed to prepare the pupils for business life
and ordinary avocations. These are maintained in each Province
at the public cost 'llicir syllabuses include Japanese and Chinese
classics, history, geography, English Readers, arithmetic, geometry,
algebra, elementary trigonometry, chemistry, and other physical
sciences, and militar)' drill. The high schools are of two grades. The
curriculum of the first lasts for three years and is intended for youths
preparing for the University, who study litCTaturc, history, phtlosopby,
modern languages, law, and politics. They may take up any
particular branch of study which they wish to afterwards pursue with
a \'icw to their degree. The second grade is of a still more
advanced kind, and the course extends over four years. In all
these schools fees are charged, except to scholars who are excep-
tionally clever, industrious, and persevering, and as such have been
selected by the ko<ho or magistrate.

One most important branch of the educational system remains
to be noticed. The Japanese are now thoroughly alive to the
necessity of carefully training teachers for their schools. At first,
in consequence of the lack of duly qualified native professors, they
had to employ foreigners, often English or American Missionaries,
for this purpose ; and since many of these having at the time an
mpcrfect grasp of the language of the country had to give instruc*
tion through interpreters, this was of course a most unsatisfactory
arrangement. So the authorities have since spared no pains or
expense in providing training colleges, with practising schools
attached to them, in every Province. In 188S there were 46 of
these with 4,416 male and 662 female students; but the niimben
have no doubt largely increased since then, though we have do
positive information on the subject. The general course of study
there is much the same as in the high schools, and is spread over
four years. In the last year special attention ts also given to
schoJastic methods and practical school work. No fees arc cbaiiged
— board, Jodging, dollies, and tttrjvVattt T\W£&arfx ts well m

.&Mk^ m /j(»BL. sS;

coDese; btf the jv^g woeibsx 2i« jc icaa^^-man.:

■ohafaie fioeiBBd fa^Sio. Cgnnrarti

mtiaa. and sc iei|Hed teoa il v^ia vsoue

<v nmticBcs. SiS, i^ my be ^i«x idicr <

Ac f"«^*»* of the Vc^maaat, hf de Ak«^ pnnasd Ah

caa£data fassc sand ai wwlyifi. iar one k»^ ^^ daeif]

tberarenot ndcr r»a^ jcss cfage, x'l

and are BOO^ » ««■ «s pbjsaSr czaSficd Tbe

to IwffC afaott afaaotee poacr o«a' de wj<hf'¥ s wir*ihnir*wg

tbdmlades for a noaefa al a tsne^ or ia deprnag csemof diar

ootificatES pnvnsooafiif , and cvcei Eaaiir, nr sBiBcaBciict or nfffttt

of dotf , r^'^'^j^ aa ^ipcal is open to tbe DtqaztBesc Ob tJhe

oUkt bud, tttr*"" ■— <K«^iif* Wrhf rfcfri brtbat of impwlni^ aj^w,w<gj

for danentarf Kfaook bj die local arrt^yrirs and far die

middle and Ugb scboob by die Dcpaitmatt. Tbex xiat die

dementaiy adiools mondilr and die odxn twice cr tfance a jctr, >»

order to give advice to die teacfaen and to report on die schools to

the local or die ccDtial antfaonties. There is also a local comiaiitee

for eadi adiool on which the male teachers sit, and this cominittee

admes the Jkacia about the afiaiis of the sdiooL Besides die head

certificated teachers there are in tbe larger sdiools assistants who

need not be certificated. For any number up to serenty one

certificated teacher is required; for more than seventy up to one

hundred and forty one certificated master or mistress with an

assistant must be provided. These very inadequate requirements

seem to indicate a paucity of fiiUy-qualificd instructors. Perhaps this

may be partly due, as respects the elementary schools, to the very

meagre salaries, if judged by European standards.

The scale of payments to ceitificated teachers is divided into eight
grades ; and their ordinary stipends range from 7 yen per month
(that is, a yen being equivalent to 2s. o^d.^ 14s. 3^.) to 15 yen (or
jQ2 y. j^d.) per month in the lower elementary schools, whilst tn
the higher of these schools they rise from 7 yen to 30 monthly. But
in the middle and high schools the payments are on a much more
liberal scale, ranging from 20 to 150 yen monthly in the former, and
from 50 to 300 or more in the latter. Probably the style of living ii
much simpler and less expensive in Japan than here. Moreover,
houses or house-rents are provided for the teachers ; and honoraria
are added at the end of the year for good general work or tpeclal
services. Travelling expenses according to time and diitance aro
paid for in the case of removal to another tchooL Durln% U!Lt\<«ia^
if it )aft9 no more than A month, the full ulu7\icmC0cNOM^\Vllw

386

The GentUmans Alagazine.

not more than two months, the half is allowed ; but after that it
ceases altogether. After twelve years* service teachers are entitled to
a pension, and at their death their relatives receive three months'
salary. The school hours are much the same as in England, twenty-
eight per week. Besides Sunday (which it is interesting to notice is
recognised in all Government institutions as a weekly rest) and
certain special heathen festivals, there arc forty-nine holidays in the
year, which may be fixed for the summer or winter according to the
convenience of the locality. Altogether there would seem to be
considerable attention paid by the Japanese to the comfort and
well-being of their public teachers. They do not enjoy as much
liberty and independence as do our English teacho-s ; but are kept
under very strict and often summary discipline. Still in other
respects they are well treated. " Autres pays, autres moeurs ; " and
when we consider for how short a time the present system has been
established, and how imperfect must yet be the civilisation of Japan,
we can only wonder at the progress adiieved in education as well as
in other matters, and may anticipate a still brighter future for that
Empire. There is only one dark blot in this otherwise promising
system. This is of course the entire absence of religious teaching.
■The old ancestral faiths arc gradually dying out amongst the more
I Cultured and intelligent Japanese ; whilst Christianity is by stow
degrees, though with decided marks of progress, winning its way into
their confidence. Morality is, indeed, taught, but of no rery high
order, and without, it is to be feared, much practical effect. We are
told on the authority of a late Prime Minister that " Education Is
non-religious and utilitarian, and educated youths are mostly
Agnostics with a morality that is loose and low." In some plaoe.^
however, as we have seen, the Missionaries have been allowed to teach
English in the State schools, and so have gained a good influence over
thescholars. Schools for this purpose have been opened at Yokohama
and Nagasaki under their charge, besides others of their own, inde-
pendent of State control. By these and other more direct means, a
purer light is slowly, butsurely, spreading amongst this wonderful and
highly gifted race ; and ere long wc trust that theirs will become io
reality, as well as in name, "The land of the rising sun."

A few facts connected with this part of our subject may interest
our readers. In 1897 the Japanese Education Department took a
new departure by sending a Japanese lady 10 England to study the
educational system and methods of our country, as well as to imprarc
hcf knowledge of our language. Special arrangements were made
by the authorities for her to liavtV wxvh a lady Missionary. This
My was asked by 00c ot l^e \ewi\a4 ^ fee \v\^ci -tVwA^jfcfc

torn to pnce ihcff ffhnip
English better. The
t^tihe tB#T*>*y fiaaUy dial
the viahor wadd be
stood cbs£ emj dcBofafe
led to a figthg e^ibfyaiiw
uiDcst Chrtw^ and iMtaKW ntm nil
better, for tber are sve to be kiad to ber.~
tbea besseir a tfaon^gh
WaAxaxf 6aeMiA^atiertm&%had oopiinoBd ber thtt tbeie ii
one ScpreiDe Bcii^ that she bad ie«d a good deal of the Kev
cnt, bat dkl not ytt. andenland its irarhtnB Sdn sbe
iaoaniioMlotaow Aetrmhtfaat Aegesfniiid to be cfcry
that dnriog ber ¥isit to Kngbwi tfaraqgh ber imamune intb
, earnest peopie^ abe would sain deanr oonictioiiaaboK
1 subjects; andtbat after ber rem faooM sbe wodd h«>e a
' infioeaoe over ber popAL It is «dl to add that tbe iottitQ-
^tioD to wfakfa she belonged vas a tcaimng school far **«'^*t^, aod
that on account of ber b^h rbaririer and abiUties she w» lelected
' this special woriL Soch instances are not infrequent, bat occur
tme to tznie to cheer the beaits of the Misnonaries. In the
dtf of Tokushiroa it was reported by tbe CM.S. that two pabUc
Lscbool-boys were baptited after careful instmctioo, and that several
I others were studying the Bible under tbe Missionancs. They would
probably cany the knowledge thus received to their parents and
homes. Another, a boy of about fourteen years of age, being
edocaied in a middle school of his town, came at fir^t to a Mission-
ary to lean) English, became gradually interested in the Gospel, and
.eventually a believer in Christ, :md then endeavoured to lead his
'achool-fellows to Him. Older sludenti, intended for the University
atTc^io, at times apply to the Missionaries for lessons in English or
German, which are given on condition of half the time being
Idevoted to reading the Bible in the language that they are learning.
At the same time we ore told th.it of the 100,000 students at Tokio
the great majority have abandoned the national faiths and as yet
believe in nothing. The present is e\'idcntly a transition period.
I The minds of these intelligent Japanese are very tmsclilcd. They
' have been brought into close contact with European religion as well
as civilisation, but ore not yet as a nation prepared to accept our
faith, though they have so largely adopted our arts, sciences, and
general culture. Still the light is steadily spreading and will in (ha
end prevail.

2S8

The GeniUnuin*s Magazine.

THE STAGING OF PLAYS
300 YEARS AGO.

THE conditions under which a play was produced in the age of
Shakespeare differed very widely from those which prevail
to-day, and a right understanding of what these conditions were
may often serve to make plainer obscure points in the dramas of that
period. Among the chief differences to be noticed are the absence
of scenery, the admission of the spectators to seats on the stage, the
impersonating of the women's parts by boys, the manner in which
the performers were dressed, and the fact that in some of the theatres,
at any rate, the performance took place by daylight.

First, the absence of scenery. This is vouched for up to 1581 by
the well-known passage in Sidney's "A Defence of Poesie," "You
shall liave Asia of the one side and Afric of the other, and so many
other under kingdoms, that the player, when he comes in, must ever
begin by telling where he is, else the tale will not be conceived.
Now shall you have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we
must believe the stage to be a garden. By-and-by we hear news of a
shipwreck in the same place, then are we to blame if we accept it not
for a rock."

To obviate the difficulty alluded to by Sidney various devices
were resorted to, one common one apparently being to bang* up a
notice indicating the scene the spectators were desired to imogitie.
Of this we have an interesting instance in the "Spanish Tragedy,"
where one of the characters in the "play within the play" says,
'* Hang up the title, our scene is Rhodes." Another device was the
use of the prologue, as, for instance, in " Henry V.," where the con-
cluding portions of the prologues to acts iii. and iv. prepare us to
travel in imagination lo Harflcur and Agincourt respectively. The
concluding line of the prologue to acti.ii. in the same play, " Unto
Southampton do we shift our scene," might at ftrst sight appear to
furnish evidence of a directly opposite nature ; but on closer examiiu-
2ion this appearance will be found to be delusive, as there is no cvi-
destcc to show lliat the word scent ttu used ia its present signiiication

Tir SS^gaf rf P&gvs jjc Fdorr A^*t. z^

fix 'h** 3HB^C X 'lOSBSBXXtBS.W ^*tf »n>£

dK JDc w*^"» 3c 111 mill I'll li" "^w^

b ic hhv 3e wtutii "touc Jiiistv s son. td
; of :&e anoesEB J&sxnf ic
Fsa^ vfaoL in a. pBBxiziiaiicE ^iv^ "■ li^"; jsnes L s. se =^1 <x

a confi^ipaEKj apeeaov (i^atOEd Ixv Xuone: sis: *^Vict t&ieieo
• . . of pMMtied dJuJiM cbcirsaige <nit i^cv:^e^ ''hw^ s zuAnaig
of one tEipi^-^ ScqbmSk. wbbi in ricn DmesaoE ^rcvuicA T^>y
"S^geaf ghr»fa*^*fa>»T,^«"Ti*«r x xs i -*^:egrseiciccir b? =:e ir:
of praapedbe in ■nir%'* dfgr*? Trrrrirw riat rte sscurfmesc ct

tbe *pEni oid ssk* viis. :=e •'■■itnim^ ±si in ^se.
Tfand^, dnt vfaflie maat iBSancsi csa be aajiirfd oc ^st use ct 0£

pj^saodwiiijii lof rfiefrnrhaycf £3eietff.FPrT',t?ic^tt3rT.-g3=cc
possAle to lamluce one fmninrr m wIu-ll ir on be desrly sirvn »
^nify a poinBed bock cbxh, choaaficrra c=e cse of tiK weed jcene
in sane m«mir% (t^. Jaasoa's Mjaqpe ac Vscocnc H^£a^»n s
Mazmge) far what ve sfaooSd nov pofc^s describe as a tabkaa^ tc
is easy to tee how the noce nudon sense ot the word arose. Of
coone; it is not denied dnt pointed badt clochs. or sooie sccfa
thii^ were osed in the xepresentatkai o( masques : bat these vould
seem to have been caDed ~ devices,' as appean from an account of
the bmning of Whitehall Palarp, in which we leam that "the device
(rf* the masque^ all of oiled paper and dzy fir,"* cai^t fire : but it is
&irfy certain that at the period we are considering these ** devices **
were not called scenes, and were not employed on the sta^^es of
ordinaiy theatres. One other passa^^ relating to this question
deserves consideration in the present context, Marlowe*s " Oido,"
act u. scene i., which seems to imply the use of something of the
natoxc of scenery ; the manner in which i^eas and Achates are
affected by the sight of the story of Troy depicted on the Temple
walls seems to require the use of pictures or tapestries of some kind
to make it intelligible to the audience. We know, however, thftt
"painted doths,"' a sort of cheap substitute for taiiestry, were often

* C/t Una 34 and 35 of the same prologue : '* The icene li now IrfttiiiHulcU
to Soathimpton," whence we see that the word "ihift " muit nut Im» taken In Iti
modem sense, toy more than the word ** scene.**

' These " painted cloths " had pictures on them. C/, Wllklns, Miuriti ^
Enfor^d Marriaget act It. : " More miserable than <»e of the wicked elders la
the painted doth.'*

vou ccxci. HO. 3049. X

290

The GenlUmans Magazine,

employed at this period for decorating the walls of rooms in private
houses, and something of this kind would no doubt have been used
in the present case, and one or two painted cloths would ha\-e had a
place in the list of properties required for representing this play, for
there is abundance of evidence to prove the use of properties in the
plays of the period themselves.

In the Induction to Jonson's " Bartholomew Fair " we find the
"Stage-keeper " says, *' Would not a fine pump upon the stage have
done well for a property now?" while in the old play of "The
Taming of a Shrew " one of the players who is to act before Slie says,

I'll speak for the properties. My Lord, we miut
Have a shoulder of mutton for a property.

Now both tlicsc quotations show that " properties " three centuries
ago consisted of much the same things as they do to-day. The
mention of properties in the stage directions of old plays ace frequent ;
a few instances must suffice. In Greene's " James IV." we are directed
to have " a tomb conveniently placed upon the stage " ; while in the
same author's " Alphonsus of Arragon " we read, *' Exit Venus, or if
you conveniently can, let a chair come down from the top of the
stage and draw her up." This is interesting both for the fine con*
sideration for the convenience of others which it implies and also
because it shows that the use of mechanical appliances for introducing
a deus ex maehin^ were not unknown. In Henslovve's Diary we find
an entry for a disbursement for a somewhat similar contrivance — " a
pair of pulleys to hang Absalom." On this point, as on so many
others, Henslowe provides us with a great deal of valuable information.
In his Diary for September and October 1598 we find that he
expended ^2^ ss. on properties for ** Piers of Winchester," a
4arger amount than was usual with him for one play ; the properties
for " Patient Grissel " cost him the much more moderate sum of
j^'\ S^- 7 while among an inventory of properties belonging to the
Admiral's men we find such entries as "Tasso's picture," "a tree of
-golden apple," "three imperial crowns."

Now wlien we remember the manner in which the stage arose in
England, the absence of scenery will seem natural enough. Prior
to the building of the first theatre in London in Elizabeth's time,
performances had been given in tlie halls of countr)' houses or in
the cotutyards of irms ; and even after the building of the early play-
houses performances in inns do not seem to liave ceased altogether.
Such a state of affairs would readily allow of the use of properties^
especially such tilings as chairs, tables, beds, Sec, which might easily

Staging of Plays 300 Years Ago. 291

be borrowed, but would have made the use of scenery, as we under-
stand it, out of the question.

Again, from the evidence at our disposal it is possible to form a
r&irly accurate idea of what the stage was like, and how it was arranged
at the period we are considering. The orchestra, consisting of
trumpets, hautboys, lutes, viols, &c., sat in a gallery at one side of
the stage, which was separated from the auditorium, not as now by
footlights, but by a row of palings. Before the performance began
the stage was hidden from the audience by a curtain which waa
drawn back after the overture or the third "sounding," as it is called
in the stage directions. At the back of the stage, which was hung
with curtains, was a balcony or raised platform called the upper stage*
which appears to have had curtains of its own,' so that it could be
used or not as the action required. When a lover had to appear on
a balcony, a serving maid at an upper window, or the governor of a
kbesi^ed town on the battlements, it was on this platform they would
rseen. If this be borne in mind it will sometimes make clear a
pungc in an old play which might otherwise be obscure : for instance,
'n Marlowe's "Massacre of Paris," scene vl, the scene continues
below whilst the Admiral is discovered in bed (on the upper stage) ;
as is shown by the stage direction, " the body of the Admiral is
thrown down." Here, however, as in many other cases, the use of
the upper stage is not clearly indicated in the stage directions and
has to be assumed by the reader.

It seems likely that when a play within a play had to be repre-
sented, the lower stage would be used for it, and the characters of the
main play would occupy the upper stage. This view at any rate is
borne out by the old play of " The Taming of a Shrew ! " ' If this
was the case the arrangement of the stage would be just the reverse
of that depicted in the famous picture of " Hamlet at the Play" in
the National Gallery ; but whether the player king and queen would
have turned their backs to the audience in the body of the house so
as to face Hamlet, Ophelia, and the rest on the upper stage; or
have turned their backs to the upper stage so as to face the audience
we have no means of deciding : anyway either the actors in the play
within a play, or the spectators of it, must have assumed a somewhat
unnatural po!>ition. When a tragedy was to be enacted the stage
was hung with black, as is clearly shown by the following quotation

* (^ Munngcr'f Smfcrvr 9/ tlu £asi, *' the cuitaiiu dfawa abore."

• C/. Sfanish Tragtdx, act. vt. where Jcronimo speaks of ihc King and his
tnio, who arc lo witness the pUy within a play, pusiiig into ibc gallery.

292

Tke Gentlentatis Magazine.

from the Induction of the Tragedy, " A Warning for Fair

Women " —

The stage U hang with black, and 1 perceive
The ftuditon prepared for tragedy.

Or again by the line in "The Rape of Lucrece," where night is
described as "Black Stage for Tragedies and Murders felL" In
passing we may note that this custom is a further proof that scenery
in the modern sense could not have been employed.

Sometimes additional curtains called "traverses" were hung
across the middle of the stage when for any reason it was desired to
make it shallower, these, like the others, being drawn to and fro
from the side, and not let down from the roof. For instance, in
Peele's " Edward I." there is a stage direction, " The Queen's tent
opens, and she is discovered in bed," which would no doubt be
managed by screening off part of the stage with traverses and drawing
them back at the required moment.

The absence of scenery sometimes induced playwrights to take
liberties which would not be possible on a stage arranged according
to modern methods. There is a curious instance in Dekkcr and
Webster's " Famous History of Sir Thomas Wyat" Lady Jarw Grey
and her husband determine to remove to the Tower of London ; a
stage direction says they are to " pass round the stage." ' After this
Guilford speaks in words which imply tliat the procession has
reached the gateway of the Tower. It would seem likely that a
procession round the stage was understood to imply a change of
scen^ wliich would of course be inconceivable if painted scenery
were used.

If the frontispiece of Kirfcman's " DrolU" (1672) represents the
appearance of a stage as it was in the earlier part of the seventeenth
century, we should conclude that the entrances and exits were
usually made from the back, which, as the tiring-room was behind
the stage, is extremely likely. The stage directions enable us to be
certain that more than one entrance was used ; ^vf- i" Rowley's "All's
Lost by Lust" we read (Sig, H 2) "Enter Roderique again at
another door."

How many entrances there were is a harder matter to decide;
for in some cases the stage directions (as in the one just quoted)
seem to imply several doors, in other cases only two } for instance,
in " The Hog has I-ost his Pearl " we read that one of the characters
" passing over the stage knocks at the other door," and again in
" Jaclt Drum's Entertainment " there is a direction *' enter Pasquil

' See DckkCf '• ^mwd/zV IVoris fTcanon's leoiintl, icA. iil. p. 306^

The Staging of Plays 300 Years Ago, 293

at one door, his page at the other." Perhaps the true explanation
may be that there were usually three entrances, one through the
middle of the curtains hung at the back of the stage, and one at
eadi end of the same curtains ; possibly in some playhouses the
tiring-room may have been so close behind the curtain that it would
have been inconvenient to have the curtains opened for the entrance
and exit of the performers,^ in which case the side entrances only
vould be employed. In the absence of direct evidence we must
rest content with conjecture. It is quite clear, howe\"er, that
in 00 case can entrances have been nude from the side of the
stagey as nowadays, since it was wholly open to the view of the
audience.

The usual covering for the floor of the stage appears to bare
been rushes ; although on the occasion on which the Globe Theatre
was burnt down, in 1613, the stage was covered with noalting, as we
learn from a letter of Sir Henry Wotion in which the c%'ent ia
described. " The play," he writes, *' was set forth with extraordinary
circumstances of pomp and majesty, even to the matting of the
stage."

One of the most interesting features of the arrangement of the
stage at this period was the admission of the spectators to sit on the
stage itself ; a practice which brou^jht money into the exchequer of
the theatre, but caused endless annoyance to the dramatists and
actors. There are numerous allusions to this custom in the plays
of the day, but the fullest and most interesting account of it is to be
found in Dekkcr's "Gul's Hornbook," wherein he sarcastically gives
advice to a yoimg gallant how to demean himself whilst -occupying a
seat upon the stage. From this advice it is not hard to deduce how
many young fops actually did behave on the stage. They would
enter just before tlu play commenced and call loudly for a stool, the
price of which would vary from sixpence to a shilling ; they would
light their pipe and begin talking to any of their acquaintance wbo
happened 10 be on the stage, generally behaving in such a manner
as to attract the attention of the whole audience. During the per-
formance they would make audible comments on the play or the
acting, even addressing remarks to the performers, or if they had
nothing better to do would take up one of the rushes from the floor
to pick their teeth with. Sometimes they would carry this careless

' In the ftootispiecc to Klikman's Dr^ts, lOIuded to ftlwve, % chamctcr \%
peeping through the middle of the cun^UDs, XmX to such i way u not to let th«
audience tee tbroagh the Aperture. Thb pUte h tcpcoduoeil u the frontispiece
to Heywood's Ptaft m the Afcmuud Sciics.

■■ to Hey wood's

294

The GentlemaiCs Magazine.

behaviour to such an extent as seriously to interrupt the performance
and cause the "groundlings " (/>. the occupiers of the pit) to hoot
and hiss at them. Perhaps Dekker may have heightened the
colouring somewhat for purposes of satire, but his picture is no
doubt substantially accurate.

To pass from the stage to the performers on it, the moat striking
difference to be noted is surely the pb}-ing of women's parts by boys ;
a tradition unbroken in Hngland, as far as wc know, until 1629, when
a company of French actresses ventured to appear in London, but
met with a reception the reverse of favourable ; for an age by no means
prudish in more respects held it indelicate for women to appear oi>
the stage. Prj-nne, in his " Histrioraastix," speaks of these actresses
as " Frenchwomen or rather monsters," and proceeds to characterise
their attempt to act on a public stage as " impudent, shameful, un-
womanish, graceless, if not more than whorish.'* But then the same
doughty old Puritan regarded the impersonation of women's parts
by men in femate attire as "sinfiil, yea abominable unto Christians."
More reliable testimony to the feeling against the appearance
of women as actresses is afforded by the fact that the French-
women referred to above were hooted off the stage by the
audience.

Not impossibly accident as much as design originally caused the
employment of boys to play women's parts in England. The direct
precursors of the theatrical companies of Elizabeth's day were
undoubtedly the little bands of strolling players who wandered up
and down the country giving performances in the halls of noble-
men's houses or the inn yards of market tonus ; such, for instance,
as the players in " Hamlet." Nor are we surprised to find that these
strolling companies consisted wholly of males, as the life they led
must have been a rather rough one : for them the acting of women's
parts by boys or young men was a necessity ; the thing having
become a custom, it was quite naturally continued when companies
settled in London. There it was turned to account in another way,
for we leani that bo>*s were apprenticed to well-known players, and
they would learn the art of acting by performing as women until they
were old enough to take the men's parts. Two important conse-
quences of this custom were the comparative paucity of female
characters in the plays of the period, and the fondness evinced by
Shakespeare and his contemporaries for making their heroines don
the doublet and hose, as Imogen, Rosalind, Viola, and many
others do.

It may be worth nolu^ one or two othef facts with regard to thc^

The Staging of Plays 300 Years Ago. 295

companies of strolling players mentioned above, as the traditions
established among them seem to have aOccted the stage in various
ways until the closing of the theatres at the time of the Great
Rebellion. In the first place, each little company consisting of but
few players (in ** Hamlet " we have " four or five players," in the old
comedy of "The Taming of a Shrew " we have t^'O players and a
boy), the practice of dotibling or trebling parts must have arisen ;
and of the continuance of this practice we have abundant evidence.
To " The Fair Maid of the Exchange " we find a table pre6xed
showing " how eleven may easily act this comedy," though it contains
Ltwenty characters, "officers" counting as one. Still later, in the
rqoarto editions of the Duchess of Malfi we find "The Doctor,"
" Cariola," and " Officers " all assigned to one actor, R, Pallant. In
the second place the members of these travelling companies must
liave grown accustomed to acting with very slight assistance from
mechanical appliance, since they either carried their dresses and
properties in packs on their backs, or in a waggon behind which
they tramped on foot, as Dekker taunts Ben Jonson with having
done. Cf. *'Saliromastix": "Thou hast forgot how thou amblest {in
a leather pilch) by a play-wagon in the high way, and took'st mad
Jcronimo's part."

The waggon of course could be used as a stage, and if like the
P** pageants " (/>. play-waggons) used in the old miracle plays it had
Iwo storeys, the lower to serve as a green room, the upper as stage,,
it is easy to see how it came about that the use of trap-doors was
common in the Elizabethan theatres, which we know to have been
the case from stage directions in various plays implying their use,
t.g. " a golden head rises " in Dekkcr's " If it be not Good."

The exact manner in which the actors dressed for their paita
cannot perhaps be determined, but it is certain that considerable
sums of money were expended on costumes. Gosson (in 1577) in
his "School of Abu.se" inveighs against the "costly apparell" worn
on the stage; while Pr)'nne, in his "Htstriomastix," some half a
century later, makes a similar complaint. Tn one case we learn from
Henslowe's Diary iTiat as much as ^m^ was paid for a single cloak,
which, if the entry be correct, is a ver)* high figure, considering the
value of money 300 years ago. No doubt the same costumes would
be used over and over again in different plays, and would become
old and stale, but when new ihey certainly appear to have been
costly. In the inventory of the apparel belonging to the Admiral's
men in 1598 there are some interesting items, a few of which may
be quoted : " Item, a cloak trimmed with copper lace and red

296

The Geniie?nafCs Magctsine.

velvet breeches," for Tamburlane ; " item, five satia doublets laid
with gold lace," for Heniy V. ; *' item, a cloak with gold buttons."
From these items it would seem that magnificence rather than
historical propriety was aimed at True that in the city pageant
entitled " Britannia's Honour " we read of one of the characters
being arrayed in "a rich Roman antique habit," but then we do not
know what ideas the men of James I.'s day had about " a rich Koman
antique habit." We know for certain that in the eighteenth century
historical accuracy was not thought of in stage dresses, and may
fairly assume the same to have been the case a hundred years earlier.

No doubt an endeavour would be made to make the dresses
distinctive, kings and nobles being more richly clothed than others,
while it seems likely that certain more or less conventional pro*
pcrties served to indicate the nature of the character represented ;
e.g. in the " Spanish Tragedy " we find " a Turkish cap, a black
moustachio, and a falchion " set down as part of the costume
required by the person who was to represent a Turkish prince in the
play within the play. Generally speaking, we may conclude that
wlialever the i>eriod represented in a play may hare been, the actors
were dressed in the costume of their own day.

On the other hand periwigs, which were not commonly used at
the period, were worn by actors, and in some cases vizards or masks,
as the following passage from "A Midsummer-Night's Dream'
testifies : —

F'uu : Let not me plajr ■ woman 1 I have a Lcard coming.
Botiem : That's all one ; jou ihall play it in a maslc.

The prologue was usually spoken by one wcariiig a large black
velvet ciaik, though the origin of the custom seems unknown.

The stage crowds of the period were very different from those of
(he present day ; in some old plays we find such stage directions as
the following : " Enter soldiers, as many as you can," with which
we may compare Shakespeare's apology in " Henry V." for atlcmpling
to represent the battle of .^incourt " with four or five most vile and
ragged foils." This was due partly to the exigencies of the case, for
the short runs made elaborate rehearsals impossible, and small
stages could not be overcrowded (especially as spectators sat on
Uiem) ; partly also to the general method of the day, which strove
on the stage rather to suggest to the imagination than to represent
to the eye.

In many trays the performance must have been more spontaneous
than at present, for the down was permitted to extemporise, as we

The Staging of Plays 300 Years Ago.

learn from Hamlet's injunction to the players: "Let your clowns
speak no more than is set down for them." This licence was sotne-
' times carried so far that the clowns would actually crack jokes with
aembers of the audience. Nor was this liberty of extemporising
confined to the clowns. Sometimes wc find in an old text an
invitmg, "&c," or a stage direction such as the following from
Heywood's " Edward IV." : "Jockie is led to whipping over the stage,
speaking some words, but of no importance."

The prompter, or " book-holder/' as he was then called, is
referred to as if he were a regular official of the theatre, together
I the ** tire-man," who presumably had charge of the theatrical
ardrobc.
The stage appears to have been lighted by a pair of larger
^chandeliers hanging from the roof, though, as in some of the
beatres only the stage itself was roofed in, daylight may to some
extent have been relied upon, since the performances were alwa>'8
given in the afternoon.

One more characteristic of the theatre of three hundred years ago
remains to be noticed, the jig. From a passage in "The Hog has
I-ost his Pearl " it appears that a jig was in rhyme, for two lines from
a jig supposed to be written by one of the characters in that play
k«re quoted in it. It was sung ^ by the clown at the end of the
performance and was accompanied, perliaps, with music and dancing
— certainly with antics of various kinds. The general tenor of jigs
may be gatlicred from the fact that Shakespeare couples together
"a jig " and "a tale of bawdry," while Dckker speaks of "a r»sty
bawdy jig." Probably the jig was to all intents and purposes the
topical song of the day. That the audiences of the period enjoyed
jigs immediately after a soul-stirring tragedy is but one more instance
of the difference between their point of view and ours, of which
numerous otiier examples have been given already. If their taste
was simpler and cruder, the conditions under which plays were
produced must at any rate have served to make the actors ready
and resourceful, the spectators imaginative and alert.

ERIC REDE BirCKLCV.

■Cf. 7^4 Hog^ has iMt kit PuwJi "A jig whose tune with Ibe Bstaral
LvhlUle of a c&imiui shall be more niTiihing to your eus than a whole coocert of
irbcrs."

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The Gentkmatis Magazine.

ODDS AND ENDS IN POMPEIL

I PURPOSE, in this short sketch, to pick out the little nuggets
of common everyday life from the glittering mine of learning
confined between the covers of Professor Mau's splendid book,
" Pompeii : its Life and Art."

I spread these little nuggets before the reader for half an hour's
pastime, and feel convinced that he will then b^, borrow, or buy
the book itself, and study its 501 pages, every one of which is
interesting.

Never, I think, has the situation and landscape of Pompeii been
placed so clearly and concisely before a reader as by Professor Maa
in the book before us. The beautiful walled city on its gentle
elevation, taking the shape of the ridge of ancient lava on which it
was built at the foot of Vesuvius, and overlooking the plain of the
river Samo, which river, then much wider and deeper than it is now,
flowed not far from the city gate, so that a small port was formed
on its banks, and became the depot of all the small towns of the
district, and even of some on the more distant parts of Campania
FeUx,

Professor Mau notices the curious fact that Acerra, at the oilier
side of Vesuvius, to which the port of Naples lay much nearer, yet
used by preference that of Pompeii, Perhaps the reason may have
been a stretch of brackish marshes lying between Accrra and Naples
at that period, which may have rendered traffic diflSrult.

I*rofcssor Mau's book is the result of twenty-five years' study
carried on with real devotion and enthusiasm, and all who have already
seen Pompeii, or intend going thither, should study it diligently.

Pompeii was surrounded by the country houses of weaUhy
Romans, and a curious incident leads one to infer that the Imperial
family possessed a villa there, for we read that Drusus, the young son
of the Emperor Qaudius, was choked to death at Pompeii by a fig
which he bad thrown up in the air and caught in his mouth, a feat
which one often can see performed by a Neapolitan street-boy now*
adays.

Odds and Ends in Pamfeiu

299

The everyday public life of Pompeii was concentrated in the
Fonun, the business centre of the city. Here idlers and gossips
loitered and chatted, here tradesmen met and settled points of
difference, and young people pursued their romantic adventures.

Imagine the public square of a modern Italian city provided
with inviting colonnades affording protection from rain or sun, and
the life of the place concentrated therein, and you can form an idea

Lof the ceaseless bustle and variety of scenes that took place daily in

I the Pompeian Forum. In front of the equestrian statues, dealers of
every kind and description took up their posts ; warm food was
ladled out from caldrons ; women sold fruit and vegetables, men
the bread fresh from the bakers ; and tinkers mended old pots and
At another side sat the public scribes— like those still to be

'^seen under the arcade of the opera-house at Naples— writing letters
for peasant women ; a group of citizens tested the wine in the bottles
they held in their hands. Persons of leisure strolled about ; bc^ars
held out imploring hands ; children played at hide-and-seek amongst
the columns. A naughty boy, mounted on the back of a school-
fellow, received a flogging for some misdeed, the master standing by
to see that the slave employed applied the lash properly. On
certain days processions passed in great solemnity, and, at the
lime before the amphitheatre was built, games and gladiatorial
combats also took place in the Forum. Then the upper storey of
the colonnade was reserved for the giver of the games, his friends,
and the paying public, while the lower portion was free to the

Fpopulacc, But no vehicle might enter the Forum, and by this
regulation her preeminence over the provincial cities in this matter
was presened to Rome.

All around this busy market-place of Pompeii were public offices,
law courts, and special markets. In the Macellum, at the northwest
comer of the Forum, there was a colonnade, under the roof of which
fish that had been sold were scaled, and the scales thrown into a

[basin. A street to the north of the MaceUum had rows of shops»
where were exposed for sale figs, chestnuts, plums, grapes, fruit
preserved in gbss vessels, lentils, corn and cakes of all kinds. The

[Counters for fish and meat were sloped, so that the fish might be
sprinkled, and thecouniers washed, while the water ran off. Sheep,
lambs, and kids were sold alive in the market, purchasers preferring
a victim that might be offered a sacrifice to the household gods
before being used as food. The wall-paintings in the Mmelium
plainly show the purpose of the building. There are pictures of all
kinds of trade and industry. In the room reser\'cd for the sale of

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The GeitiUman s Magazine,

meat and fish there is the personification of the river Samo, the
coast, and surrounding country, suggesting that in this room might
be obtained the products of the sea, the river, and the land.

Pompeii indeed enjoyed a large source of income from its fertile
soiL PUny, Professor Mau reminds us, makes frequent mention of
the Pompcian wine, but adds ttiat indulgence in it caused a headache
which tasted till noon the following day. Tlut tlie Pompeians were
extensive market-gardeners is proved by the fact that even many
private e&iatcs had vegetable gardens attached to the house

The business streets in Pompeii can even now be distinguished
at a glance from those in the less frequented quarters, the latter
being bordered by the blank walls of houses, broken only by the
bouse doors, while the former are lined with shops open to the street
in all their width, at night being closed by wooden shutters. The
door-keepers in private houses were frequently cobblers, as is very
often tlie case now in Naples. This is proved by the tools found
and some inscriptions on the walls.

At the time of the destruction of Pompeii, soap, a Gallic invention,
was only just bcgtmiing to come into use. As most of the garments
worn were of wool, they were sent out of the house to be cleansed,
and the trade of fuller n-os relatively important Then, too, as now,
woollen clothes were bleached with sulphur fumes.

Wine shops were numerous, and were often at the same time
eating-houses, with some accommodation for the night. They had
names such as "The Elephant Inn," and the guesu scratched
remarks on the walls ; one runs, apparently written by an affectionate
husband : " Here slept Vibius Kestitutus ail by himself, his heart
filled with longings for his Urbana." The charges were low, for
owing to the universal custom of private hospitality, these places of
entertainment were only resorted to by the lowest classes, and tended
to become the haunt of the vicious.

It seems probable that driving was forbidden in the streets of
Pompeii, people using litters ; in the widest streets, where are the
stepping stones for wet weather, the waggons could pass, the wheels
rolling in the spaces between, and the horses being loosely attached
to the wings by means of a yoke, which gave the animals freedom of
movement.

An sorts of games had the keenest interest for Pompeians;
I'heir amphitheatre is the oldest known to us from either literary or
monumental sources. Numberless notices painted or scratched on
the walls relate to such sport. Terms of endearment were lavished
Dpon gladiators in such inscriptions. In one, CeUdus is colled "the

Odds and Ends tn PompeiL

30"

maidens* sigh," and '* the glory of girls," while one Crescens is styled
" lord o' lasses," and " the darlings* doctor." Ever^'one knows that
with the Romans the public baths were on indispensable part of
daily life, and the baths of Pompeii stood in no way behind those
of greater dties in motley and tumultuous variety of scene.

Professor Mau gives us a quotation from "Seneca " in illustration
of what went on in such places : —

•' I am living near a bath," writes the philosopher ; "sounds are
heard on all sides. Just imagine for yourself every conceivable
kind of noise that can offend the ear. The men of more sturdy
muscle go through their exercises and swing their hands, heavily
weighed with lead. I hear their groans when they strain themselves,
or the whistling of laboured breath when they breathe out after
having held in. If one U rather lazy, he has himself rubbed
with ointment, and I hear the blows of the hands slapping his
shoulders, the sound varj-ing as the massagist strikes with flat or
hollow palm. If a ball-player begins to play and count his throws,
it's all up for the time being. Meanwhile there is a sudden brawl as
a thief is caught, or there is someone in the bath who loves to hear
the sound of his own voice, and the bathers plunge into the
swimming-bath with loud splashing. Thc?e noises, however, are not
without some resemblance of excuse, but the hair-plucker from time
to time raises his shrill voice in order to attract attention, and is
very still himself when he is forcing cries of pain from someone else
from whose armpils he plucks the hairs. And over all the din
you hear the cries of those who are selling cakes, sausages, and
sweetmeats."

It is a curious fact that the aqueduct, furnishing water not only
to Pompeii but also to the Naples of that time, brought it from the
mountains near Avellino, following substantially the same route
which, since the year 1S85, has led to Naples the excellently pure
water now enjoyed by that city and suburbs.

Turning now to private dwellings we are informed that the
Pompeian house can be traced for about four hundred years. The
earlier form consisted of a single series of apartments ; a central room,
the atrium, with smaller chambers opening into it, and a garden at
the back. The arrangements contemplated much spending of time
in the open air, and protection against heat, not cold, was most
regarded. The Pomprians seemed excessively sensitive to heat, but
bore cold with great patience. In the houses of later date and
greater development there were usually two dining rooms, one for
summer, the other for winter or bad weather. In many bouses the

302

Tiie Gentleman s Afagazhu,

front door opened directly on the street causeway ; and where there
were vestibules they were generally more modest than those in Rome.
Doors were fastened with bohs, and crossbars across the wings.
In the earliest times the hearth stood in the atrium, a hole in the
roof serving as chimney. There the household gathered at meal-
times; there they worked and rested from their labours. In such an
atrium, Professor Mau reminds us, Lucretia sat with her maids
spinning late at night, when her husband entered unexpectedly with
his friends; and in such a room in his Sabine \'illa, Horace loved to
dine and converse with his rustic neighbours.

A table in the atrium, with vessels of brass, remained much
longer in use at Pompeii than in Rome, and symbolised the more
ancient hearth with its cooking utensils. Probably this table was
Uial on which the dishes were washed up, for frequently a statuette,
throwing a jet of water into a marble basin, stood in front of it.
Wide counters or sideboards, which could be folded back^ stood
between the pibsters. The children, even of the Imperial family,
sat on low stools at a table of their own, placed on the open side of
the large table, for the couches of the diners at this stood only on
three of its sides.

In the kitchen, fuel was kept in a hollow place under the
masonry hearth, just as it is now in most South Italian houses. A
baking-oven near the hearth, too small for bread, was evidently
intended for pastry. A small hole above the hearth carried off the
smoke of the fire, which was made on the top.

Store-rooms were a common convenience in the Pompcian
houses, as is seen by the traces of shelves fastened to the walls; and
a few of the houses were provided with cellars. Wall-paintings show
that the young girls of families were well educated, for one fresco
represents girls writing, wliile another shows a young woman
painting, two maidens watching her with great interest, and a
Cupid holding the unfinished picture at which she is working.

Most of the good houses had double doors at the entrance, one
of which was probably set open during the day, as in houses of the
present period. In many dwellings, the rooms not required for
household purposes were utilised as shops or small separate resi*
dcnces, and no doubt afforded an important source of income to the
owner, just as now, in the old-fa.shioncd great houses of Naples, the
ground-fioor is let out in shops or separate smalt apartments in the
interior of the courtyard.

Generally the rich inliabitants of Pompeii possessed farmhouses
in the neighbourhood, a suite of rooms over tlie domestic apartments
of the tenants being reserved for the use of the owner.

Odds and Ends in Pompeiu

303

Not o!ic bed ha* been found in the s!ecping-rooms of Pompeii,
for, as they were usually made of wood, they have crumbled away ;
and in only one of all the dining-rooms were sufficient remains of
; the couches found to reconstruct them in the models now in the
[ifaplcs Museum. A curious proof that many children in Pompeii
I vnere brought up by hand, is the fact that feeding-bottles (often mis-
taken for lamps) made of tena-cotta, were found, on which the
figure of a thriving child is seen, or that of a mother suckling an
infant.

Professor Mau gives his readers a splendid idea of the beauty of
ft Pompeian house on entering it : "As one stepped across the
mosaic border at the end of the faucts (or corridor) a beautiful visla
opened out before the eyes. From the aperture of the implunum
a diffused light was spread through the atrium, brilliant with its rich
colouring. At the rear, the lofty entrance of the tablinum attracted
the visitor by its stately dignity. Now the portieres are drawn aside,
and beyond the large window of the tablinum the columns of the
first peristjle are seen. The shrubs and flowers of the garden arc
bright with sunshine, and fragrant odours axe wafted through the
house \ in the midst, a slender fountain-jet rises in the air and falls
with a pleasant murmur to the ear. If the vegetation was not too
luxuriant one might look into the exedra. on the farther side of the
colonnade, and even catch glimpses of the trees and bushes in the
garden of the second peristyle."

It would occupy too large a space here to give an idea of the
interesting matter in Professor Mau's book rebting to the tombs of
Pompeii, but we may mention tliat, besides the famous "Street of
Tombs," there were at least two cemeteries for the poor at different
sides of the city. Notwithstanding the religious feeling of the
ancieuts with r^aid to their dead, notices of a semi-public character
were often painted in bright red upon the walls of tombs, and one
ridiculous incongruity is met with in an advertisement about a stolen
horse painted on a tomb in the outskirts of Pompeii. It runs as
follows: "If anybody lost a mare with a small pack-saddle on
November 35, let him come and sec Quintus Decius Ililarus (a freed
man) on the estate of the Mamii, this side of the bridge over the
Sarno."

A most notable feature of Pompeii is the innumerable inscrip-
tions, ranging from commemorative tablets put up at public expense^
to the scribblings on the plastered walls.

There are more than six thousand, and they give an insight into
the life of the city and its people unequalled in the world. The

304

The Gentleman's Magazine.

most important are the election notices, of which there are about
sLxteen hundred. In these the names of more than a hundred
candidates appear. The recommendations arc often very simple ;
merely the name of the candidate, with the brief addition, " a good
man," or, " worthy of public office." One candidate is affirmed to
be "a youth of singular modesty"; and another is recommended
on the plea that " he will be the watch-dog of the treasur>'."

Sometimes a recommendation is used against an office-seeker
with telling effect : " The meek thieves request the election of Vatia as
Kdile."

Another notice runs : "His little sweetheart is working for the
election of Claudius as duumvir;" which goes to prove that the
Pompeian wonnsn were then as active perhaps as the ladies of the
Primrose League now.

Inscriptions relating to gladiatorial combats were of course
plenteous, and also advertisements of lost articles, such as : "A
copper-pot has been taken from this shop. "Whoever brings it back
will receive 65 sesterces."

At least one-half of the entire inscriptions are the graffits or
scratchings, a habit accounted for by the temptation to use the
sharp-pointed stylus on the polished stucco of the walls or pillars.

Such scratchings are of all kinds : names, catchwords from
poems, amatory couplets, rough sketches, such as the profile of a
face, or a ship. Skits are frequent. An ardent Pompeian writes :
" Down with the Nocerians ! " and an adversary, '• Good luck to the
Nocerians ! "

Many scratchings are greetings to friends, and one is just the
reverse : " Sanius to Cornelius : Go, hang yourself ! " A very naive
greeting is to a friend who has died : " Pyrrhus to his chum Chias :
I'm sorry to hear tliat you are dead, and so, good-bye."

The theme of love is most prominent in prose and verse, the
latter commonly the elegiac disHeh. One scribbler gives his Opinion
of love as follows: "He who has never been in love is no
gentleman."

A lover writes : " Health to you, Victoria, and wherever you are
may you sneeze sweetly ! " Another sap : " Cestilia, Queen of the
Pompeians, sweet soul, greeting to you I " A rejected suitor, in four
lines of irregular verse, purposes to vent his anger on tlic goddess of
]Love herself : " All lovers come I I purpose to break the ribs of
Venus, and to smash the small of her back mih clubs ; if she con
bore a hole in my tender heart, why can I not break her bead with a
cudgd?"

Odds and Ends in Pomptii,

305

Of a man-flirt is written : " Restitutus has many times deceived
nuny girls." A swetit instance of marital and family affection is
seen in the graffiti of a lonely wife addressed to an absent husband
and other relations : " Hirti Psacas at all times and In all places
sends heartiest greetings to Gaius Hortilius Conops, her husband
and guide and gentle adviser, and to her sister Diodata, her brother
FominatusandherCeler; and she sends a greeting to her Primigenia
too."

One Pompeian counts the steps as he walked up and down the
colonnade at the side of his garden for exercise. He records 640
paces for ten times back and forth. An advent of young pigs or
puppies is noticed: "On October 17, Puteolana had a Utter con-
sisting of 3 males and 2 females."

Children scratched on the walls the alphabet they were learning,
and quotations from Virgil and also an echo of lessons at school.
Sometimes a maxim is found recorded, as "The smallest evil, if
neglectedf will reach the greatest proportions."

Many inscriptions on amphorae are found at Pompeii, generally
with a pen in black ink, but sometimes painted in red or white.
Wiiies were often designated by characteristic names. One brand is
called "frenzy wine," another "white drink," a third "breakfast-
drink " \ probably this amphorae contained a kind of mead made by
mixing honey with wine, which was drunk at the first meat of the
day. The words for olives, beans, meal, honey and lentils are found
on the amphorae in which they were kept.

A large number of vessels contained the fish-sauces of which the
ancients were so fond, and were labelled with their names, "^erum
blossom," a kind of fish jelly, or "tunny-jelly, blossom brand."
'* Muria,"a favourite kind, was apparently a sort of pickle.

I cannot close this sketch in a better manner than by quoting part
of chapter fifty-eight, the "conclusion" of Professor Mau's beautiftii
book, which points out the significance of the Pompeian culture : —

" The situation of Pompeii was unfavourable to the growth of an
indigenous culture. Founded by Samrutes, a primitive folk, it lay
in the overlapping edges of two great zones of influence, <jreek
and Roman. It was a small town, which never rose to the dignity
even of a provincial capital. It was a seaport, which, through
marine traffic, kept in touch with other cities, esp>ecially those of the
east, from which fashions of art, religion, and life travelled easily
westwards. . . . The literature which tliey (the Pompeians) read, as
we team from quotations scratched upon the walls, consisted of the
Greek and Roman writers of their own or previous peri6ds ; not a
VOL ccxci. NO. 3049. Y

306

The Gentlentan*s Magazine,

single line of an Oscan drama or poem has been found Their art
was a ruproduclion uf designs and masterpieces produced elsewhere
— at first under Hellenistic, later under Roman influence— on a
scale commensurate with the limited resources of the place.
Finally the countless appliances of everyday life, from the fixed
furniture of the atrium to articles of toilet, were not rare and costly
objects such as were seen in the wealthy houses of Rome or
Alexandria, but those of the commoner sort everywhere in use.
Any one of fifty cities might bave been overwhelmed in the place of
Pompeii, and the results, as far as our knowledge of the ancient
culture in its larger aspects is concerned, would not have been
essentially diiTerent.

"The representative rather than exceptional character of the
remains at Pompeii make them of less or greater value, according as
we look at them from different points of view. If we are seeking
for the most perfect examples of ancient art, for masterpieces of the
famous artists, we do not find them. Many of the Pompeian
paintings appeal to modern taste ; yet it would be as unfair to
judge of the merits of ancient painting from the specimens which
are worked into the decorative designs of Pompeian walls, as it
would be to base an estimate of the value of modern art upon
chromos and wallpapers. ... No large city, fortunately for its
inhabitants, was visited by such a disaster as that whicli befell the
Campanian town ; and the wealth of artistic types at Pompeii bears
witness to the universality of art in the Greco-Roman world.

"Since these remains arc so broadly typical, they are invaluable
for the interpretation of the civilisation of which they formed a part.
They shed light on countless passages of Greek and Roman writers.
Literature, however, ordinarily records only that which is exceptional
or striking, while here we find the surroundings of life as a whole,
tbe humblest details being presented to the eye.

" Pompeii, as no other source outside the pages of classical
authors, helps us to understand the ancient man."

LILY WOI.FPSOHK.

3p:

AT LYME REGIS.

PERSUASIOarS benine faannts ihny
nunc <dd wrid pteiium, Ljme, for bm;
I trod dij quunl tfntJlA cnl to-^iy.
Yet KDOwn of jore ibey seen to bc^

I "*'*'"' the Hig^ Street^ steep uxliiK^

Yon ancient Inn's astir tCHtey,
Sa WahcT Etiot^ bones fine

And cmiide obstruct the my.

The Inn^ awake with laoquejs grand,
Tbe landlord waits with wckoming smile ;

Sir Wahcr scorns th' obsequious band,
And will not deign to staj awhfle.

Fair &ces watch, from latticed pane,

The curricle remount the hill,
But Aiuie lodis seaward, and doth chain

To her sweet self my wandering will.

Now in the street her pensive shade
With Captain Wentworth flitteth by ;

Though fair Louisa, wilful maid,
Contrives to charm his sailor's eye.

A youth in mourning follows slow,
With downcast look and absent mind ;

I smile at Benwick's crushing woe,
Swift consolation he shall find.

Of ancient make their gay attire,
The men's high stocks, the ladies' curli ;

But youth with wonted life and fire
His flag o'er lip and cheek unfurls.

They heed me not, for what am I ?

A shadow vaguu of years to come ;
To the new Cobb they laughing fly.

While I must follow, wistful, dumb.

They jesting climb the Cobb's steep side,

Louisa, ripe for girlish freak,
I dread the ill that must betide,

AVould warn them bade, but cannot speak.

Again I haunt the quaint old street ;

A figure slight, with hazel eyes.
Steps lightly, — no man turns to greet

Our witty Jane, or " Welcome " cries,

Romantic maids, or wits of Lyme
Who find belles-lettrti a constant lure.

Would never deign lo turn a rhyme.
To this fair guest, with eyes demure.

Yet hath she made Lyme Regis town
For many a modem pilgrim famed.

Through fair " Persuasion's*^ just renown,
Her English classic, aptly named.

On Cobb, in street, Jane's U>'ing face
Seems still to smile, nor men forget

Her sweet Anne Eliot's pensive smile,
Whose fancied haunts allure us yet

MAUDE PROWER.

309

TABLE TALK,

Modern Corruption op Language.

I DARE not attempt fully to ilhiatrate my quarrel with modem
corruptions of language. There are a few men 1 know who
would bring everything to the standard of convenience, and would
seriously commend the ase of a language such as Volapiilc. For
them I do not write. The climax of ignorance Is surely reached
when we find a society describing itself on its formation as
Ornithological, and announcing its purpose as being to improve the
breed of dogs t^that of bad taste is approached when men write that
" it goes without saying," as is daily done. A mistake which dates
from early days is to be found in some old writers of established repu-
tation, and is constantly employed by men who should know better,
in using the phrase " from whence." " Whence," of course, involves
the " from." If a man does not see the absurdity of such a phrase, I
can only counsel him to extend his heresy, and try the effect of " to
thither " — one utterance being as defensible as the other. These are,
[ adroit, ca.ses of grave mistake. To deal with lighter matters:
Why should men now talk of " bye-paths " ? What signification do
they attach to these ? " Bye " has in England no justifiable existence
except in the salutation, "Goodbye." A "bye" at cricket even is
not defensible. It is a meritorious act on the part of our London
County Council to shame our Parliament and our railway companies
by substituting by-law for bye-law. On some of these points I liave
previously dwelt But nothing can be done with the public until a
thing ts hammered into its head. In this case we need the
" damnable iteration " with which FaEstafT rebuked Prince Hal. In
the volume of Daniel, from which I have recently quoted, bypath
is, of course, correctly spelt. By-paths, by-gone, and by-words are
all rightly spelt in Shakespeare.

Current Errors.

T will perhaps be regarded as pedantic to ask people to substitute

• tiro " for " tyro," yet they ought so to do. *' Tiro " is in the

Latin a recruit, or young soldier. Still more hopeless is It to ask

3IO

The GeniUmans Magazine.

them to write "rime " instead of " rhyme/' the latter mistake being,
as it seems, deftnttely established in the language. Yet all philo-
logists know " rhyme " to be founded on a mistaken association with
** rhythm." I turn to " rime," in the first popular dictiooiry which
is accessible, the *' Student's English Dictionary," by Ogilvie and
Annandale, and find under " rime " the explanation, " The more
correct spelling of rhyme." Daniel, whom I have before quoted,
writes "ryme." The first use of the word by Shakespeare is in
" Two Gentlemen of Verona." Here, in the supposedly authoritative
edition of Wright and Clark, " The Cambridge Shakespeare," I find

Some lore of yoais hath writ lo you in rhyme,

accompanied by no comments. In the First Folio the word is spelt
"rime," a fact the editors complacently ignore. In every other
case in which I have consulted the fir^t folio it reads " rime," and
the modern editor substitutes " rhyme." Milton, in the first edition
of " Paradise Lost," has

Things unattenipicd yet in Prose or Rhime,

which I may incidentally mention is a translation or paraphrase of

Arioslo's

Cosa noa delta in prosa mai ai In rima.

Where the best scholars fail in reforming a heresy I, of course,
despair of success, and the matter is not, after all, of supreme impor-
tance. " Rhodomontade " is a simitar mistake which is of frequent
occurrence. The real form is, of course, " Rodomontade," being
descriptive of the vapourings of Rodomonte, a brave but boastful
leader of the Saracens in the " Orlando Furioso." Who, in this
case, first brought in the superftuous " h " I know not It can
scarcely be due to some confused association with Rhodes or
Rhododendron. I may mention again, as a curious instance of the
misquotation now almost universal, that HazHtt, in Bohn's edition of
his works, is made lo speak of '* Primroses that come before the
swallow dares," instead of " daffodils " in one of the best-known
passages in Shakespeare.

St.\lk Quotations.

ONE of the results of the general dissemination of half-know-
ledge is thai the scholar should be provided with, or should
himself provide, an almost entire stock of new quotations. Manj of

Tabk Talk.

3»i

our most fiuniliar quotations, in spite of their beftuty and appropriate-
ness, are woro threadbare, and there is an inexhaustible supply in
the mines that ha?e already been quarried. One might surely be
supposed to have heard by now the last of the statement that the
English "take their pleasures sadly," fathered on Froissart, but not
to be found in that writer. People should for very shame cease to
misapply cut botv, the meaning of which is quite different from that
ordinarily assigned it, and "of that Uk," which is wrong nine times
out often when used. I would fein, however, stop quotations of great
beauty when they have become vulgarised. Surely

A thing of bcftuty Is a joy for ever

has been employed often enough. " Cons^picuous by his absence,**
which few know to be practically translated from Tacitus, is scarcely
to be regarded as a quotation. It is used ad nauseam^ but may be
accepted as a current locution convenient in its way. Still fewer
know that we are indebted to Tacitus for " They make a solitude and
call it peace," and the reproach of " forsaking the setting sun and
turning to the rising." These quotations cannot be said to have been
%-ulgariscd. Sheridan supplies a batch of quotations that ore almost,
but not quite, too familiar. The same may be said of Tennymn,
though, perhaps, as regards conversation rather than writing. Few
can say "Come into the garden" without adding "^[aud." A man
would scarcely dare, in these later days, to draw again the picture of
an institution

With prudes for proctors, dowtgeis for deam,
And sweet giil-gi&duAtes in tbeir goldea hair.

Or repeat, except in joke, concerning a too long-winded orator —

For men may come and men vuy go.
But I gu on fat cvcj.

and

A well ■graced actor.

Beauty when uDadomed adorned tlie most.

Age cannot witbei her, nor cusumi iiale
Her infiuTe variety-

must be taken as representative of scores of things that can never be
forgotten, but have served their purpose. I know one writer into
whose compositions the lines concerning the teacup times of hood
and hoop, or while the patch was worn, intrude as regularly as King
Charles the First mtruded into Mr. Dick's Memorial — ^which last is
itself an illustration that has done good service, and might be put
on the retired list.

312

The Gentleman s Mc^azifu.

Nbw Quotations.

IF I do not attempt to give many new quotations, it is becauie
such are inexhaustible. I could supply thousands as good as
any in use and not perceptibly impoverish the stock. The
•' Festus" of my old friend Philip James Bailey, of whose death two
score years ago — though he is still happily alive— I recently read
■with amazement, would alone furnish scores of sentences pithy or
poetical, and quite worthy to take rank as gnomes. Shakespeare
has not yet been half used. All can people Windsor with sights and
sounds of " sweet Anne Page " j yet who ever thinks of Launce's name-
less sister, who is " as white as a lily and as small as a wand," surely
the very picture of sweet English maidenhood ? Beaumont and
Fletcher are never quoted, yel I could draw theocc passages of
tenderness and beauty unrivalled except in Shakespeare. Think, for
instance, of the girl who, dressed as a page, has followed her lover to
the wars, and finds his sword directed against her throat. A second
Viola, she is willing to accept death at the hands of her lover, and
says, encouraging him to kill her —

Strike, 'tis not b. Ufc,

'Us but a piece of childhood thrown away.

I think, but am not sure, that it is Suckling who makes a lover
declare, concerning his mistress—

H« face L» like tlie milky vay i' the kky,
A meeting of gealle lighu wtthoal a name—

surely an exquisite comparison,
inexhaustible.

But the subject, as 1 said, is

SVt.VANUS URBAN,

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

October 1901.

SOME EXPERIMENTS IVITH JANE,

By M. A. CuRTois.

I CAME across Jane some years ago. It was at the lime when
experiments were being tried with her.
A young friend of mine, who knows the ins and outs of London,
had discovered Jane in a London lodging-house, left there as a
legacy from many former landladies, though how she had originally
ot there no one knew. The present landlady, who had only recently
smc into possession, was anxious to get rid of this child of the
premises, being ambitious, and having set up a more showy servant,
of a smart though distinctly dubious appearance. My friend, who
might be an eminent philanthropist if she would take her philan-
thropy less by fits and starts, became interested in this forlorn
Jane of uncertain age, with a white compressed face, dark eyes, and
a mop of hair — hair which left the beholder with the perplexed
impression not only that it nc\xr had been but that it never could
be brushed. The landlady, who had her own ideas, was only loo
anxious to make the best of Jane. She gave us to understand that
though outwardly unpresentable the girl had a treasure of mora!
worth within. "Aii would never have anything to say to the lads,
ma^am," she asserted. "You needn't be afraid, there's no lightness
about Jane ! " Our after-impressions did not quite bear out this
evidence, but on the whole I still agree to it. It was not lightness
ihat was Jane's chief characteristic, what impressed me most was an
appalling sincerity.

This became evident to me in the explosion that marked the
end of the first experiment, an experiment that had begun delusively

VOU CCXCI. HO. 20S<X Z

314

TJi€ Gentleman s Magazine,

with the smoothest prospect of success. My friend had an acquain-
tance who was a seamstress in a London street, composed of small
bouses exactly like each other, all apparently murmuring, " Poor, but
Respectable." The seamstress in question certainly was respectable
{by the way, she did not give the same character to the street), a
widow of about fifty, with a grown-up son, and a house kept as neat
as the traditional new pin. The understanding n-as that she was to
train Jane in the ways of virtue ; while Jane, boarded by my friend's
money, was to assist her in the housework. As for the son, he was
a young builder, away all day, and it was to be hoped that he would
not fall in love mth Jane. The bargain was struck — Jane did not
seem otherwise than acquiescent — she was removed to the widow's,
and at first all went well

That hardly expresses it. The widow was enthusiastic. We
heard nothing at first but the most lavish praises of Jane, so lavish
indeed that if Mrs. Smith had not been transparently sincere we
might have a little suspected her exactness. The girl had seemed to
us silent, frightened, dull, a compressed creature from whom nothing
could be extracted— perhaps, as the landlady had told us, " she was
daft wi' gentlefolk," a race with whom possibly she had no previous
acquaintance. When we saw her during her first days at Mrs.
Smith's she was still silent as she had been before ; but her silence
struck us as of a different character— it seemed now like a mute
reception of impressions. Mrs. Smith assured us that she was
" hintcreated in hevcrythink " ; and that her son, who was " a good-
living young man, thought well on her ^ — a statement which she
hastened to qualify by the news that he was keeping company with
the daughter of a grocer. We departed after congralulaiing Jane
on her good beliaviour, felicitations to which she gave no response
whatever. Mrs. Smith accompanied us to the door herself, that she
might again express her gratitude for our having provided her with
Jane.

And then I

Only three da>-s later, on a Sunday afternoon, when wc were takJitg
afternoon tea in delicious leisure, there arrived the young builder
in such tremendous agitation that it was a long time before we could
understand his talc That same evening wc went again to Mrs.
Smith to condole with her on a catastrophe,

AVhat had hapjiened ? There had been no thunder in the
air. Jane had been good and docile at '* Meeting " on Saturday ;
and, Sunday morning being wet, had spent il with Mrs. Smith in
tidying every nook and corner of tlic house. £vcr^ thing was peaceful

Some Esperimetds wiik Jmme, 315

iftfr Ifwt ^*"'*4f*y ^"w ' ; die youpg bcildersat witli Ins p^ic m tlie
dean kitdien, iridic bis mother ttwfc hermp widift book of mnaiis
on her kne^ fipom irindi die infmiVri to tend to her son and Jane.
Tbey had Kaicdy obsovcd the afacncc of the Inter from the nxm
when thej wete roosed \fj a tenible commntinn Clike citses and
w3d beastly* was Mis. Smidi'seqaeanaaX and with one accad they
nuhedapstaiis to the attic The s^fat which tibey cucuuuteied was
not short of honor.

How shall I describe it? Thefuiuihuewasall "unshed ibont*
(I keep 00 &]lii% bade 00 His. Smith's enaesMous);. It was ill
over the fioor; it was polled, broken, knocked aboot; tfte bed-
dothesand imiueaaes woe torn off the bed. And there in the
midst stood Jane in a white finy, ** a grapplin' with her hands,* and
tean rollii^ down her diedcs. The ootborst wfaidi followed was
the first infimatp acquaintance with the inmost Jane with wiiidi her
hosts had been faTooicd.

" I won't stay 'ere," cried Jane " I 'ate yer 'oose. I won't be
put upon wT yer nasty nigglin' ways. I want to be untidy and
dirtyl"

" An' wi' that," said Mrs. Smith, "she ups wi* the mattress an'
beddothes, an* she 'eaps *em cm the bed, an' there she gits into 'em,
just as she was. An' if youll believe me, ma'am, she lies there now.
If youll j^ up an' look at 'er yoall see 'er there ! "

My friend discreetly refused to encounter Jane, evidently suffer-
ing from acute hysteria. She consoled Mrs. Smith, who had a weak
b«ut and was agitated, and left her, promising to come back on the
morrow. The next day came, but the situation bad not improved.
Jane had remained in her disordered bed, perfectly passive, but re-
fusing to be disturbed, and presenting nothing to view but her mop
of hair. Mrs. Smith was excited and wailing for a policeman, that
she might turn " the monster " from the house. In fact, as her heart
was really subject to attacks, the position of afifairs was full of danger.
But my friend is a lady of infinite resource, and packed Jane off to
a new home that very day.

"You see, dear," she told me, during a few minutes' conference
which we held together in Mrs. Smith's front parlour, " it was perhaps
too neat a place for the poor child, who has been kept at an unnatural
pitch of virtue. I have an idea I "

And though I was sceptical, the idea when revealed did not
sound entirdy hopdess. My friend's establishment has generally a
few odd memb^ who hold indefinite positions among the rest
Among these ^vas a girl who had been brought up from the country

3i6

The Genikman^s Magazine.

to be trained, and was returning to her home before proceeding to a
"place," The said home was a lonely cottage in the midst of fields,
tenanted by a laige family, at once disorderly and respectable. The
mother would be glad of a "help," and it seemed Hkely that Ja tie
would be permitted (with limits) to be both dirty and untidy.
Besides, the country allows many opportunities — it is always possible
there to retire into a lane and make mud-pies. So Jane was in-
formed by Mrs. Smith of her new prospects, and preparations for her
departure were set on foot at once.

Of course my friend interviewed her before she went, and told
her that she was a wicked girl, to whom a last chance was being
given. Jane received this news with her usual silent manner, as if
she had entirely withdrawn into herself. But to Mrs. Smith, who
followed up the exhortation with many remarks of a much more
graphic nature, she wore a different countenance — one of white-faced
silent injury, as of one who has been /;// upon till she can endure
no more. I have no doubt this was really her view of the position.
She went off with her bundle, and we saw no more of her. But we
felt with misgivings that we had not heard the last of Jane.

Nor had we, indeed, although some months elapsed before we
were favoured witli any further news. AVe had separated, had each
been in various places, and were at length in the autumn again
together and in Ix)ndon. One evening, when our husbands were
away and we were alone, we were told that " a poor woman " wished
to see my friend. This visitor proved to be the Mrs. Ronald who
had undertaken the second experiment with Jane.

I remember that in the interval which elapsed before she appeared
we looked at each other with foreboding in our faces, wondering with-
out words what the news would be. When Mrs. Ronald entered
with care written on her brow we realised that the news would not
be good. She came in, so rural in her country shawl and bonnet
that she seemed to bring with her the autumn stubble-fields. Stand-
ing before us, she at once entered on complaint. " She did not
know if she could do with Jane — Jane was so ///*fA."

So high ! We remembered that Mrs. Smith had said, "Jane was
the lowest creature as she ever see " ; and although accustomed to
experiences we found our breath taken by this difference of position.
But when Mra. Ronald was seated, and bad been revived with coffee,
the details she gave went far to confirm her statement. It appeared
that we had only imperfectly realised tlie amazing versatility of Jane.
"When she first come," said Mrs. Ronald, " ahe was quiet-like,

S»mt Escperummis wiik J^

^^7

and seaned to be fwrndfim'. * (We ii ■! ■■Imid ifart fflndkieu)
"Bac nowsiie'ic began to t^ sfae tsSs cmyut what* itHfen.nn!

bcTc be betwzx' l.annnn an* t* comilzT. She tdfcs oT aodHf faoK .

in, Smitb, an* of bcr «aj% an' of parties, aa^ Haac-^dta^ wf thit

sort o' tfainf;. Bat 1 doo^ saf die's not a good girl, for dkc t^s as

:thatMfs.Smkfaalia}i«attto Meedn'an'faadsnTcn. Sbe

t sucn a ntss m tt tliat vcrfe wyui to bbvb pn^os v BBJgblL

An' sbe says sbe wooldnt atty if it wasn't for the duces in the

winter, an' that sbeH go to 'cm in white imwhriing an' bbe

Inbboos.-

Herc was amfiisioo ! My friend immediately evcJTcd that innate
depravity was beginning to appear in Jane. I tbot^fat dificrcntly
(we had long ago decided that she was to be praftiralj and I psydio-
logical). It iras crident, indeed, to me tbat this child of London
followed her impulses ss sunply as a saiage or an animal ; but I saw
no proof of any worse depravi^tban ibeonaccotmtable perrerseness
of a child. A wish rose in mc to see ber at the Tillage dances, in
the company of the young beker who admired her ; and it so
h:^ipened that this careless thought was able to bring about its own
futnlmenL For I mentioned it to my friend, it excited her curiosity,
and sbe arranged that at Christmas we should go down into the
country.

We were in sore trouble that winter, both of us, and I think that
made my impressions all the sharper \ though it left my friend,
whose perplexities were deeper, in a despondency that allowed little
observation. Anyway, I have no \ision clearer cut ilun tliat of the
village schoolroom on the night of the Christmas dance — seen again
by mc after many years of absence, during which I had known little
of English villages. I can sec it now — the bare rooms with their
Qnre of gas, the garlands of tissue roses, the big fires, the village
fiddlers, the jovial assembly— and Jane in the midst of it, obviously
on the brink of a third experiment. Sbe was not in "white
mushcling " (probably for want of funds) ; she was in the Sunday dress
that .Mrs. Smith had made, bare, black, unomnmcntcd, and already
a good deal worn, but she had tied her hair with a blue ribbon.
With surprise I saw that she was not unattraclii-e ; she was older,
and her slight figure had gained a certain clfgance, though her
white compressed face, dark eyes, and mop of hair were as much Jane
as they had ever been. The young village baker fluttered round her
with attentions ; so did others of the swains, but she was distinctly
high with them, though her manner was that of imiiaticnco rather
than of principle, as if she had no fancy for promiscuoui courtship*

3i8

The Gentleman's Magazine*

She greeted my friend and myself with a shy grace, which seemed (o
speak confidence and gratitude. We were interested . . . but we
had no time to pursue impressions, for the next day, on sudden
summons, we left the village. We parted ; the waves of a great
trouble closed upon mc, and for a long time I thought no more ot
Jane,

Then I heard the rest. Not long after the Christmas dance Jane
had become the wife of the village baker ; and for a time was a most
submissive helpmate, "as if she were taking things in,'* said my
informant The hapless baker could have had no previous know-
ledge of the way of Jane in each experiment of life — that is, of
receptivity followed by revolt. Consequently, when the latter came
it found him unprepared— a quiet man, mildly jocular with customers,
unprovided with weapons for impromptu warfare. His Jane developed
wilful to a quite extraordinary extent, neglected duties, was in and
out of the house all day ; and though she was never, said my infor-
mant, " either extravagant or bad" was as impish, and contrary, and
capricious as a child. The quiet baker had his own means of resent-
ment ; if he could not control Jane he could treat her with severity.
There came a night when she fled out weeping into the village,
and found compassionate people to pity her and take her in. She
seemed quiet and sad, and they respected her as a martyr— while the
baker returned without regret to single life.

Here, then, the story might have ended for a time, but an un-
expected development occurred. Before the protectors of Jane had
found reason to change their tune, an event happened which upset
all calculations. News arrived that the baker was dangerously ill,
and Jane at once flew back to her husband's home, where she nursed
him during his brief sickness with agonised devoUon. He seems to
have been sensible of this affection, but was too ill to alter the will
that he had made in his first anger — a will which left all he owned
absolutely to his mother. The old lady, who only knew this after
bis death, was not disposed to be ungenerous ; but Jane, never mer-
cenary, refused to touch a penny. As a reward for this unselfishness,
and for her devoted nursing, her mother<in-law took her back to her
own home in the nearest town.

i should like to have known more of this mother of Jane's
husband, for she seems to have been a remarkable old woman— not
least proved so by the capacity she showed for understanding and
dealing with her daughter- in -law. She appears to have realised that
during a period of grief Jane would be everything that was tractable
and submissive, but that with reviving energy &l]c would again becoma

Some Experiments with Jane.

319

impossible ; that the simplest course, therefore, was to get her manied
as soon as might be. The young foundrynien had begun to flutter
about Jane even in these days of eariy widowhood ; but I fancy that
the astute old mother-in-law had no sort of wish to have her daughter
established near her — near enough to be sought whenever Jane
required a refuge. Circumstances were favourable. A travelling
circus came to the town to spend the spring, and Jane was intio-
duced by a friend to the manager. He admired her exceedingly ;
before the spring was over they were married, and in the early
summer they left the place. The old lady assisted the whole business
generously, and parted from Jane — probably with great relief.

So closed the talc. It must be owned that I shook my head.
I fancied that Jane had in her only too much of the caravan. I
told myself— not without some relief on my own part— that I was
not likely to hear of her again. But in that head-shake there "v^
ignorance and prejudice. The course of time was to make this
clear to me. Once more— thJs time in an unexpected interview — I
had an opportunity of observing the development of Jane.

That was two years later, on an autumn evening, when I sat
alone in lodgings in a provincial town, musing on many things, to
which the unfamiliar room, my temporary resting-place, gave a
setting of its own. Among other pieces of information provided
by the servant, I had been told that there was a circus in the town,
but nothing in me responded 10 the news. Even the subsequent
announcement that a young woman wished to see me was not
enough to recall an old acquaintance. The young woman, how-
ever, after entering modestly, stood still in the midst of the room,
and announced herself.

" Please, ma'am, I'm Jane."

1 sprang forward immediately. Here then once more was the
result of experiments.

In what had they resulted ? When I was sufficiently composed
to be able to take stock of my visitor I became aware of alteration,
though there was not enough to dispel the sense of a familiar
presence, Jane was slight, while-faced, dark-eyed as of old ; and
on the whole quietly dressed, though she bad now a professional
appearance— and moreover the look of a professional on tour, the
indefinable aspect of the unstationary. The skirt of her dress wag
of some simple dark stulT and untrimmed, but her jacket, though
also dark, had some gold twist on it, and her mop had developed
into a formidable hang beneath a black straw bonnet with red roses
under its brim. I mention these details because they produced the

Tk^ Geniiefnan's Magazine*

pression— a desire for soberness softened by adoramenl.

,er was charming, simple, modeslj confident, with a more

lour than of oM. As if I had been her teacher, she was

assure me that she had in nd wise forg^otten old

jsban' is a good man^ ma^anii he really is \ and I goes to
en we stay over Sunday. And I speak to the others, and
lot to be pigs an^ 'eathen, or they'll get caught up sharp
i day. I allays say my prayers^ you may bet I do t An'
nt to leave my 'usban* now the litlle baby's come."

own that the last sentence was somewhat staggering to
lad been rejoicing in Jane's simple piety. But on reflec-
isidered that its honesty lent weight to the other sUte-

had made. Whatever may be thought of her phraseolog)',
>f the lodging-house at least was candid.
e add that my inquiries (for 1 did make inquiries) resulted
ling good impressions. I was told that Jane's husband
;hy man, though with a temper somewhat worn by profes-
tion j that he was satisfied with the dignity of his wife
:ie boys," and altogether fond of Jans and proud of her.
1 once been between them a time of "awkwardness";

_^II

MOUND-MAKING BIRDS.

AMONG the cnrioos snd icmzdoUe bets of bird Ii£e nooe
probably aic more stzikii^ and Mqggeuite duo those ooo-
nccted with the inognd-bondffn of Anslnlia, and of the Ifnlnrra^
Nicobor, and some other places. Mr. Gould in lus great woii: on
the "Birdsof Anstxafia*hasgTTenafii0andinostintere9tii^accoant
of die Ldpoa oerHnttt, the srinirifir name of one species of these
roound-bml£ng birds there. The mocmd-bDildit^ ii^ of course, a
sabstitnte for nest-biuldii% — so great and radical a cfaai^ that only
great and ladical cbaz^es in conditioo and drcumstances could in any
m^ aixount for it Lapoa oallata^ at immeose labour and pains,
manages to scratdi together a vast mound composed of mould, dust,
and vegetable matter, till it is yards square. Into the Tcry middle
of this, at an exact and unifonn depth, the bird deposits ber

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